Catalyst - Lost Chapters
by Lustrex
Summary: Lost and deleted chapters from my larger work, Catalyst. Contains some T-rated works and some M-rated works. Rating will go up once first M-rated piece is posted. It is a MUST that you have read or are reading Catalyst, otherwise much of what is going on will make no sense. [Companion piece]
1. Meeting Spencer (T)

**Hello! Thank you for choosing to stop by and check out the lost and deleted chapters from Catalyst. These are not an absolute must-read, they are optional little scenes that I've written in order to play with characters on my own time. **

**However, it IS a must that you've read Catalyst in order to understand what is going on. If you've clicked on this and have no idea who Spencer is in relation to Max, I suggest either backing out now, or clicking on my name and reading my other fic first!**

**This scene is a lost scene, and it's from the first time Spencer encounters Max. Spencer talks about their meeting in chapter thirteen, and this is how it goes down from his point of view. **

**Without further ado, please enjoy!**

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**MEETING SPENCER**

_Not again._ Spencer sighed and paused outside the door of his shitty apartment. The crumbling brown brick front steps were nothing extraordinary to come home to on a good night, but now they were crowded with the curled form of someone undoubtedly drunk off their ass. And that someone was definitely female.

Spencer checked his antiquated watch, frowning at the scratched face and wondering absently if he had enough money for a new one. It was quarter 'til four in the morning. He had no idea how long she'd been lying there but this was not a safe neighborhood by any means. He shifted his messenger bag over his head to cross over his body then dug his keys out of it before bending and scooping the girl into his arms.

She was surprisingly light. And also surprisingly _not_ repugnant in terms of smell. He was used to the gag-inducing cloud of tequila and Coke mixed with sick and spit that generally came with drunk people, having worked in a bar for the last two years of his attempted college education.

Something lumpy bumped against his arm and he rolled his eyes. It felt like the spines in those lung-buster tops some girls were trying to bring back into the spotlight from the eighteen hundreds, all laced up the front to best display the goods. Except, they usually only wore that as a top, rather than underneath clothes like they used to be used for. This girl was already in a dress here, what did she need one of those stupid corsets for? Women were always trying to shove their boobs up to their chin and it made him all the more positive that men were the way to go in terms of life partners.

It was especially hilarious when women of the seedier parts of downtown San Diego tried to poach fruity drinks with tiny umbrellas from him by flashing him a little something-something, thinking he was at all interested. Sure, boobs were great. They were soft and bouncy and they'd ended up in his hands more than once during his life throughout his experimentation years before he'd committed fully to the whole gay thing, but still. He had a job to do, and people expecting free drinks from his entirely uninterested self because they'd managed to beat gravity got very old, very quickly.

But his mother had brought him up to respect a lady, no matter how much said ladies seemed to get _themselves_ into a situation like Miss Surprisingly-Not-Smelly here. The fact that he hadn't seen his mother in almost a decade made no difference. He could just imagine the angry spew of Italian in his ear if she found out he'd left the girl on the steps.

Spencer shouldered open the cracked glass door that only offered security in the form of a peeling ADT sticker as a deterrent. The girl didn't only _not _smell like dried vomit and stale drink, but rather like wind and bubblegum, with a hint of sweat. It was…nice actually, and one of the things girls did well that he actually appreciated. Men couldn't pull off smelling like flowers or candy, though Spencer himself preferred more of the woodsy scent, like pine. That was probably why gin and tonics were his kryptonite.

He didn't know what she was doing on his doorstep if she wasn't drunk and he really didn't care. She had no purse or phone so he couldn't even call a friend to come get her. She'd have to spend the night on his couch then, ratty as it was.

Spencer managed to get up the two flights of stairs to his apartment no problem—really, the girl weighed next to nothing. She looked healthy enough, aside from the whole unconscious part of the equation. Not skin and bones, but still slender. Spencer shook his head and got to his door, lifting his knee to press it up against the peeling wallpaper so he could drape her legs over it without dropping her. He shoved his keys into the lock and glanced up before opening the flimsy door. The bit of string he left dangling just inside the doorway was not caught in the closed door, so he knew no one had been in there, lying in wait for him. Still safe then.

Spencer walked in and kicked the door shut, shuffling over to the couch and dropping the girl rather unceremoniously onto the faded floral piece of furniture he'd stolen off the side of the road. In the process, the hem of her dress shifted up her thigh, and that was when Spencer knew that this girl was _not_ some drunk chick that had passed out on his doorstep.

The throwing knives strapped to her thigh were the first indication. The feather that fluttered from literally nowhere down onto his shoe was the second.

Normally, he wasn't one for creeping on a person while they were otherwise incapacitated but…well he had been born into a family consisting mostly of criminals. And if this woman was going to be in his apartment while she slept off whatever it was she was currently afflicted with, he wanted to know why she had throwing knives, of all things, and where the hell the feather had come from.

He picked it up. It was large, larger than any feather he'd seen before, and a glossy tan color. Bits of white speckled the length of it and it was incredibly soft. He put the feather on his makeshift coffee table—really two Igloo coolers and a piece of plywood propped on top—and squatted down next to her.

She was young. Light brown hair, some Spanish features in terms of eye and mouth shape. Fairly pretty. Her skin was a bit…different. She was fair in color but if he looked closely, he could see she had scars all over the place. The left sleeve of her jacket had ridden up a bit and a long, surgical-looking one ran the length of her arm, disappearing under the black leather.

His eyes shifted down to the sheath at her thigh. Considering the murder spree California was in the middle of, these concerned him more than the feather. But she was so slight, so 'not a killer' type that it seemed ridiculous to think that a) she had anything to do with that and b) that one of the Limerick Killers was stupid enough to pass out in the open on a stranger's doorstep.

Still, Spencer undid the strap to the holster and slid it off her leg. He tucked the knives into his messenger bag and stood, fetching the couch pillow at her feet and sliding a hand behind her back to lift her up a bit.

He brushed against the lumpy spines again, and his imagination went a bit wild. Big-ass feather, dual spiney things at her back…what, did she have wings or something? Because that would just be the cherry on top of an already weird day. He had enough problems, what with worrying about his job, his family, trying to study, failing to maintain a social life while in college, and being in college _still _with his on-and-off education (really, he should have graduated by now, but college was pretty expensive when you lived in a city, alongside having to keep moving and uprooting because of your psychotic family).

He was being ridiculous, he knew, but she already had throwing knives. So just to be sure…

Spencer pulled the back of her jacket collar from her neck and pushed her hair out of the way. Sure enough, nestled right against her back were two folded appendages that he was pretty sure were wings.

_Che cazzo._

No, really, what the _fuck?_ He'd been _joking._ It was the middle of the night, way too late to be up and working when he had a test at eight tomorrow. He was supposed to be studying, not spending his Tuesday night first breaking up a fist fight between two guys arguing over their lack of Valentine's Day dates, then babysitting a girl with _wings_ and _knives_.

He needed a drink. Spencer propped the pillow under her head and poured himself a glass of Wild Turkey bourbon stolen from work. He surveyed his apartment and the myriad of things he'd collected in the two years he'd been here. All easily forgettable if need be, all either stolen or acquired out of necessity.

It wasn't much, not when he might have to get up and leave within a day. It made settling down extremely hard, but he'd been okay here for a couple years. Assuming this girl wasn't about to change his entire life with whatever story of wings and daggers she cooked up when she regained consciousness, he could still be safe here for a little while longer. Hopefully long enough to finish his degree and actually earn money he could spend on frivolous pieces of junk rather than plastic pasta strainers he tended to keep losing and tin pans that burned in the oven. He already knew he was going to have to suspend his education for the fall semester, because his funds were running low again. More shifts at the bar meant less time for school, but at least he was getting there. Slowly. And legally.

Spencer pulled off his messenger bag and extracted his text for his Music and Civilization class. The battered second- or third- or more likely fifth-hand text book cracked when he opened it, the spine broken in so many places it didn't know how to do anything but lie flat. He set it on the table and pulled up one of his frustratingly mismatched chairs, as if he ever had company over to warrant needing more seating.

He'd just gotten to Schumann's mental disorder and how it changed the composer's various lieders when the girl shot straight up, hands already curled into fists and eyes wild. She glanced around the room quickly and her eyes landed on him. Immediately, she glared at him, as if everything in her life were his fault somehow.

"I'm not too happy to have you here either, kid, so don't start with me," Spencer said before she could get a word out.

She blanched. "Kid? I don't think so. Who are you and what do you want?" She stood from the couch and her palm ran down her thigh. He saw the flash of fear when she didn't find the knives.

"Ideally," he said, watching her shift around, "I'd like for you to just leave. But I have to say, the wings were a surprise to find." She narrowed her eyes at him but stayed still. She didn't want to attack him, he could tell. He had to have at least sixty pounds on her. She probably knew how that would end, wings or no wings.

That didn't stop the look of anger and confusion on her face. His eyes flicked down to the feather on the table and she followed the gaze.

"Wasn't like I went _looking_ or anything," he said before she could jump all over him. _Much_.

"Why did you bring me here?" she asked, and he noticed her casing his apartment. For a weapon or for an exit, he didn't know.

"You passed out on my doorstep in a neighborhood that has two gangs in the middle of a turf war," he said. "Unless your goal was to end up in someone's trunk as part of a prize, I figured my couch was the safer alternative."

She eyed him. "Thanks. I guess. But you robbed me, so that negates that good deed."

"Oh, you mean these?" Spencer reached into his bag and pulled out the knives. She sucked in a breath through her teeth and, to his surprise, _recoiled_.

"Yes," she said, recovering and taking a step towards him. "I'll just take those and be on my way."

He scrutinized her again, trying to figure her out. She looked at the sheath of knives like it was repulsive, but her hand stretched for it anyway.

"What's a girl like you doing with weapons like these?" he asked, dangling the sheath over his lap.

"Does it really matter in the long run?" she replied, sighing and rolling her eyes.

"Sort of, seeing as you're in my apartment and I'd rather not be accidentally harboring a criminal."

She was over the table and knocking him to the floor before he could say another word, her slight frame a complete lie in terms of her strength. The knives went flying and he tried to scramble after them, but she straddled him, pinning his arms to the carpet. He looked up at her, eyes wide. Where the hell had _that_ come from?

"You're going to forget I was ever here. I am nobody, I do not concern you. Do you understand? Or do I have to show you how serious I am?" Her face was set in a deadly scowl, determination and stubbornness etched into her features. He recognized that face. It was the same one he put on the last time he fled from someone's residence he'd mistakenly believed to be abandoned, the same exact show of strength and ruthlessness he'd adopted when someone threatened him.

He also knew the kind of fear that hid just under that face. That hunted look in her eyes was familiar. She was running from something, or from someone. Just like he was. He knew nothing about her. She had wings and weapons and she was like nothing he'd ever seen outside of himself. Without even meaning to, he relaxed completely in her grip.

"Someone is after you," he said. She didn't refute it. "You're running and you have no where to go."

"Anyone could guess that. Obviously I'm not normal," she said.

"Obviously," he deadpanned. "But sometimes it takes a runaway to know a runaway."

She paused on top of him, searching his eyes for something. "I'm willing to bet whoever you're running from will forget about you eventually."

Spencer shrugged as well as he could with his body still stuck under hers. "Maybe one day, when they forget they had a son."

She rolled her eyes again. "You're running from your family? So deadly." She let go of his arms and pushed off from his chest, standing and retrieving the knives. He propped himself up on his elbows and followed her with his eyes.

"You'd be surprised," he said. "How about you answer one question. Think of it as payment for keeping you warm during this frigid February night."

She stared at him, then looked at what he was wearing. Dress pants, a button up dress shirt, and the vest from a three piece. Not a jacket in sight.

"If the low sixties is frigid, I shudder to think of what you feel for New York," she said. Internally, he smirked at how close to the mark she was. "Fine. One question, one answer."

He didn't know why he asked, truthfully. The sooner she was gone, the sooner he could study and hopefully make at least a passing grade on his exam. He did have a million and a half questions though—who was she, why did she have wings, where did she come from, who was she running from, why did she have throwing knives…but he didn't like people prying into his previous life. So he wouldn't pry into hers.

"What's your name?" he asked instead, because really, just being able to put a name to the girl's face in his memories, someone who shared his state of mind, would be enough.

"My name?" she asked, strapping the knives back onto her. She pulled the sleeves of her jacket straight and looked down at him. "Of all the things you could ask, you ask for my name?"

Spencer didn't move from the floor. She was dangerous, he knew that now. But she didn't _want _to hurt him. That much was clear. She was friendless, like he was. She was scared. Like he was. They were a little bit the same, in some ways.

"You have one, don't you?" he said. He meant it as a joke but her face darkened a bit.

"Max," she answered anyway. She rolled her shoulders, but she didn't take off. Not yet.

"Well, Max," Spencer said, standing and brushing invisible dirt off his pants. "I don't know about you, but I haven't had anything to eat since seven. I made a pretty good risotto chicken yesterday, and I have plenty of leftovers. If you're interested."

He didn't wait for her answer. He sauntered into the kitchen instead, hoping she'd stick around. Just for a bit.

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***Che cazzo - what the fuck (in Italian)**

**Hope you enjoyed! Drop a line if you've got something to say, or even just want to say hey. **


	2. Trust (T)

**Rated T.**

**Pre-_Catalyst._**

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**TRUST**

He didn't know why he was bothering.

Maybe it was because she was still the same piece of work the original was, and yet altered just slightly that he thought he'd be able to tell the difference between the two if they were somehow plopped right in front of him. Maybe it was because she was permanent now, and he didn't have to worry about the sneer he'd get from the original just for being near.

Either way, he was interested in her imprint. Too interested, he knew. Interested in what it felt like, what made her so unable to concentrate or pull away. Her body language told him only so much. The couple of missions they'd been on before she was made permanent were anything but relaxing, and he was more concerned with how well she could complete them than dealing with what he could do to her.

But now...

He rapped on her door, labeled with a cracked black five at eye level. She was situated just down the hall from him.

"Yeah?" he heard her call, instead of standing and answering the door.

"It's me," he said, voice a low rumble in the dark hall. It was past midnight, technically lights-out, but he was too intrigued to care about breaking a rule as small as curfew.

"It's open," she answered, and he turned the cheap painted gold knob. She was sitting upright in her bed, a blue folder stuffed with papers and a yellow legal pad spread across her lap. She'd changed out of her Arena gear, clad in a pair of blue cotton shorts and a tank top.

"This a social call?" She quirked an eyebrow at him and grinned, poking a tongue between her teeth. He shut the door behind him with a soft click.

"What makes you say that?" he asked instead of answering.

She looked at the clock on her side table where the glowing blue numbers read 12:37. "It's past curfew."

"And yet your lights are still on," he said, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back against her door.

She shrugged and twisted her hair up, securing it with the red pen in her hand. "I'm not one for rules and listening to authority. Neither was she."

"I noticed," he said, studying her. She shut the legal pad inside the paper-stuffed folder and tossed it on her side table. "Break too many and the Director might deem you useless." It was an empty threat, really. But ultimately, it depended on the rule she broke. He couldn't be too sure the Director wouldn't eventually get mad at how little she tended to follow instruction. Unless Bane was the one _giving _the instruction, of course.

She pulled a face. "She didn't like Dr. Hans before, I don't like him now. I've agreed to do what you two have asked of me. The price he pays is my insolence where I can get it."

She said it playfully, but he could tell she was serious. Dr. Gunther-Hagen had dealt with her before, years ago. He'd warned Bane that she was stubborn and talked back. She had an unbreakable will. Bane rose to the challenge, and he'd broken many experiments before. But Gunther-Hagen had been right. Her will _was_ unbreakable. Which is why they'd had to resort to Cleaning her, after asking her for a week had gotten them nowhere. That was months ago now.

"You're clearly a bit of a rule breaker as well," she said. "Otherwise you wouldn't be here."

"Not usually," he said. "I wanted to make sure you were settling in alright."

"Past midnight?" she questioned, calling his bluff. Her gaze flashed across him, scrutinizing him. It made him uncomfortable, her dissecting eyes picking him apart. "What are you really doing here?"

He'd come here for a reason. It was only interest. She could see through his lies right now, there wasn't a point to keeping up the charade.

He pushed off the wall and moved towards her. She didn't flinch this time, though she was watching him through wary eyes. He paused right at the edge of her bed. He was working on establishing a line. Maximum Ride was the one he had spent his days plying for acceptance, torturing her into doing what he wanted, even though she resisted every step of the way. Altered Max a.k.a. Parker was the one he offered to teach different fighting techniques, the one he treated like a teammate rather than another useless experiment whose brain would be fried by week's end.

She'd accepted that treatment, cautiously. He saw the looks of mistrust whenever he picked up a couple of industrial zip ties, or the recoil of her skinny shoulders when he approached her in the bright-white halls. She had to know he was treating her differently, but she was still unsure of him. He really couldn't blame her, but he needed her to trust him, and she didn't. He needed her to know that he wasn't going to hurt her, not unless he needed to.

"I had a question," he said. She sat up, back straight and legs crossed under her on the red and white striped comforter.

"I thought I answered all of your questions weeks ago," she said. It was true, he'd asked about what she could do, what powers she possessed, what powers all of her old Flock possessed, among other things. But this…

"This is different," he said, sitting at the edge of the bed. "It involves your imprint."

"Imprint?" she asked, head cocking to the side.

"It's what the Director calls what I can do to you," he explained. "I was wondering what it felt like."

Her eyes raked over him again, and he tried to convey open honesty. He hadn't come here with ulterior motives. He didn't want anything from her. Just an answer. He'd been very careful not to touch her on their missions so far, or when he was teaching her new combat moves. He matched her against Nightshade or Cassava and instructed from the sidelines. It was an inconvenience, but he tried working around it.

He had even gone as far as asking Gunther-Hagen what to do about it. When they initially introduced the Alter into her head, the imprint wasn't something Bane expected. Gunther-Hagen had just shrugged when he asked if it was intentional, so Bane didn't know if the man would even have any answers for him. And true to form, the Director gave him a look over the giant oak desk towering with stacks of papers and little clusters of empty styrofoam coffee cups and simply said 'do what comes naturally.'

Which told Bane exactly nothing. What came naturally to him was to just watch as she lost the ability to concentrate on anything other than _him_ for several minutes. That didn't really help _either_ of them.

Now, Max seemed to war with herself. She stretched her fingers out and looked him in the eye. She hesitated for a moment, then wrapped them around his bicep. He didn't take his eyes of hers, and he watched the dilation of her pupils when her fingers settled on him.

He felt nothing, of course. Just skin on skin, the slight grip of her fingertips just below the sleeve of his grey cotton t-shirt. But she was feeling so much more. Her fingers flexed hard, knuckles going white, and then they went slack.

"It's like a flame," she breathed, eyes flicking down to where she touched him. "It's bright and hot and it licks up my spine but I can't—" She stopped and with extreme effort released his arm, her hand curling into a fist. "It's like your veins are full of gasoline and I'm just so _drawn_ to that fuel. It takes an insane amount of willpower to pull away from you, and it doesn't help that I don't know if I can trust you."

"You can," he said automatically, but her eyes flashed.

"How can I be sure? You tortured her, what makes me any different? How do I know that you won't get pissed and just—"

Bane had a hand on her throat and her back pressed into the wall before she could finish the sentence. He didn't squeeze, didn't slam, just crowded her there. The pen in her hair jostled and slipped out, releasing her hair and dropping around her face to brush over his hand.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he said, his fingers light against her flesh. She could break away from him if she really wanted to. She couldn't stay tense though, and her muscles released involuntarily. A combination of fear and wild need warred on her face, and anger slid in to cover both of them, but only barely. Good. So she could push it away somewhat. "I could very easily. You can't fight me, and you know that."

"You're doing a great job at _showing_ you won't hurt me," she snarled, or at least tried to. It weakened towards the end. He brushed his thumb over the raised ridge of her trachea, and she shuddered.

"Have I yet?" he countered. "I don't want to hurt you. I don't need to, not when I can order you to do what I want." She scowled at him, but he continued before she could start anything. "Which you hate. I know that. But I have nothing to give you but my word. We're partners, and I've been trying to show you that." She clenched her jaw but didn't say anything so he went on.

"I've taught you many things to help with our missions over the last couple months, and I'd like to continue on that route. But you need to trust me, and I need to trust you."

"_You_ need to trust _me_?" she said incredulously, nearly breathless.

"You're clever. You might not be able to fight me, but I have no doubt you could find a way to kill me, if I piss you off enough."

Her eyes looked back and forth between his, and her fingers came up to hang off the wrist of his hand braced against her.

"So how about a pact," he proposed. "You trust me not to hurt you, and I'll trust you not to kill me. I won't order you if it isn't necessary, as long as you just _listen _to me. Together, we'll do our job, and we'll be unstoppable."

She was dissecting him again, and this time he let her, because this needed to be it. This needed to be the point at which they could focus on getting the mission done, rather than worrying about trusting one another. He released her, so that she only had to concentrate on this one thing. Her eyes slammed shut and she heaved a giant breath, then exhaled shakily.

When she got herself back under control some minutes later, she peered at him from under heavy lids. "You know, if it had been anyone else, they would have been through that wall," she said, annoyed. "But fine, alright. Deal." She nodded once.

"Good," he said. And then, because he couldn't put it off anymore: "What do you want to do about the imprint?"

"What can we do?" she grumbled, sinking into her pillows. She still didn't sound very happy with him.

"I don't want to make you uncomfortable. That's the last thing I need. Neither of us likes what it does to you, but by not addressing it, we're opening ourselves up for vulnerabilities," he said. He tried to catch her eyes and he noticed she was actively trying to avoid his. "We need to work through this, not dodge it."

"It isn't that I don't like it," she said slowly, and he raised an eyebrow. "It's that I don't know what to do about it, how to handle it."

"Build up a tolerance," he said, electing to ignore her first comment. "Learn to feel it and shrug most of it off quickly when necessary."

That was the problem, Bane thought. She wasn't used to it. He touched her so infrequently that it made concentrating ten times harder for her when he did. If she was used to it, if he didn't abstain from touching her at all costs, perhaps she could learn to shake it off quicker. Like a drug, she could build up a tolerance.

"How exactly?" she asked, cross. That part of her that was used to being in charge of everything starting shining through the frustration. "It's not like there's a manual for this."

"You did it once already," he said. "Just now. You were pissed that I was shoving you around and you clamped down on it to yell at me. You just have to let it happen and then push at it."

She considered this. Without warning, her hand shot out again, grabbing onto his leg right above the knee. He didn't move and for the third time that night he watched her go completely rigid and then unbelievably lax.

And fuck, it was _fascinating_. People weren't supposed to lose control of themselves like this, and he wondered just how the hell Hans had managed it. They had been pushing into her brain slowly, but they must have sunk into something that latched onto him too much. He was the only one who could command her to do things, who could make her unravel like this. Some wires had gotten crossed somewhere.

He really didn't care. Unless this thing made life unbelievably difficult, it was powerful.

He remained silent and she fought with herself for a long time. By the time her eyes reopened, pupils only slightly larger than normal, it had been several minutes. Which wasn't very good in terms of being able to use this in the field, but it would get better the more she practiced, he hoped.

Her breath was shaky when she released him. "It doesn't go away. Not completely. But…it gets to a point that I can think clearly again. It just takes a while."

He bobbed his head. "Then we'll work on it. The Cleaner isn't bug-free."

She sunk down further and the pen dug into her elbow. She tossed it on her side table. "Wonderful. More things to train."

He grinned. "You're already better than me with the throwing knives. I'm thinking those will be your primary weapon."

She frowned, a crease forming between her eyebrows. "They don't exactly have killing power. Damage ability, yes. Fun, too. But not exactly lethal unless I'm up close."

"That's the point," he said, standing from her bed. "You're too quick to draw. You act first, then think."

"I can control myself." She glowered at him. He only gave her a look and she sighed. "Usually."

"You should sleep," he said, very deliberately phrasing it as a suggestion rather than an order. "Curfew passed long ago, and you're due in the Arena at eight."

She obeyed, shrinking down into her pillows and murmuring a goodnight. He hit the lights on his way out and shut her door, grinning to himself.

He'd accomplished several things, the first of which was what he'd set out to do—identify what she felt. It was simple enough, a strong wave of stimulation that didn't let her go. He'd thought something along those lines, given her body language and the amount of time it took for her to return to normal faculties. He just hadn't known it was _that_ strong.

The second was the issue of her hesitation around him. Not only because of her imprint, but because of the trust. He wasn't actually worried she would kill him—she probably wasn't capable, not with the imprint he'd given birth to inside of her—but letting her _think_ he was worried gave him the leverage he needed to forge ahead with this deal. To make her think he was concerned of her turning on him would hopefully make her feel like she had a little bit of power where she really had none.

And now they had a game plan on dealing with this imprint. He only hoped it would work and she could build a tolerance quickly, because it was very hard to work with someone you could barely touch.


	3. Cutting it Close (T)

**Rated T for language. **

**This is a little bit of an insight in the relationship between Parker and Bane. It's worth noting that while her codename is Parker, she still goes by Max. Parker is just used for field operations, just like Barrow is used for Bane. **

**Nothing extraordinary happens, it's just a snapshot of the way they interact. **

**Takes place two days after the previous chapter, on around July 3****rd****, 2010 (judging by the articles Fang found in chapter 12), roughly a couple of months after the first time Max was Cleaned, but only a few weeks after Parker was made permanent. You should probably have read up to chapter 17 in the main story at least in order for most of this information to squeeze in smoothly between all of the missions.**

* * *

**CUTTING IT CLOSE**

"Control it," he growled low, trying to watch her and the paunchy guard at the same time.

"Working on it," she said a little breathlessly. The guard was nothing spectacular, thick, coke-bottle glasses perched on a hooked nose. But he had taken them by surprise and Bane reached out without thinking, securing a hand low on her stomach and pressing her to the alley wall to stop them from being spotted.

He didn't remove his hand, because this was one of the ways she was trying to get used to it: what he did to her, that pull she'd apparently been programmed with. She was trying to get better at shoving down that automatic reaction to go to him by forcing an overload on her system and learning to let it happen, then ignore it when necessary. Sometimes it worked. Other times, it didn't.

They didn't have a lot of time for distraction right now, but with the high-end apartment building's security guard taking his smoke break, there wasn't anywhere they could go anyway.

It fascinated him, the way she reacted to him. The pain in the ass assignment he'd been given to try and convince this experiment to help take down the School's enemies with her unique set of fighting abilities and general world experience…it had been getting old. Max, the original, wasn't easily pushed around.

She fought him constantly, and he didn't like being talked down to or patronized by her. _This_ version of her, the one that was somewhat compliant, was much more interesting. She didn't pull away from him, though he knew she was fully capable of doing so if she really, really wanted to. But she didn't _want _to. He had her in the palm of his hand and he _liked _it.

"You could just shoot him," Max muttered next to his ear, sounding stronger.

Bane barely contained an annoyed sound. "We can't shoot everyone we meet."

"I didn't say everyone," she replied. "Just the ones that ruin our timeline."

"We're fine," he whispered. "There's a reason he only sent us, and not the rest of the team."

"Yeah, yeah. Less suspicious," she sighed. "Get in, plant the bug, find the files, get out."

He looked down at her and searched her eyes. "You have it under control?" he asked.

"I wouldn't say it's ever _under control._ But I'm good."

He slid his hand away from her and they waited in silence for another few minutes. The security guard turned after hocking a slimy ball of stringy saliva onto the ground next to his discarded cigarette butt. He ventured back inside Dr. Delaney Winthrop's apartment building with a phlegmy cough.

"Gross," Max said, and her nose wrinkled.

"Comm unit active?" Bane asked, sliding out from the shadows.

"This isn't my first rodeo, _Barrow,_" she responded, right behind him. He ignored her and knelt in front of the unpainted service door the guard had been standing next to. He pulled out his pick set from inside his utility jacket and got to work on the lock while she lounged against the wall, eyes on the street. The lock popped open after another minute and he paused with his hand on the rounded metal door knob.

"You've got twelve minutes," he told her, handing over the set. She took it and danced her fingers across his chest as she slipped through the door.

"I'll be out in ten," she said with a coquettish grin. He had no idea if the original Max was this teasing, seeing as all he usually got from her were flailing limbs and suggestions on where she would shove her foot if she ever got the chance. Either way, he watched her go, eyes following her lithe form as it disappeared up the dim stairwell.

He clicked the door shut again, moving to stand in the long shadows of the modestly-sized brick building. He heard her breathing through her open earpiece as she climbed the service stairwell. His eyes tracked up the side of the building, trying to follow her mentally. He heard a door open and her echoing footsteps ceased.

"I'm on Winthop's floor," she reported.

"Ten and a half minutes," he reminded her.

She huffed in his ear. "You know, I do have a watch. I can tell how long it's been."

He scouted the street again, but no one was around this time of night. They'd left the School half an hour ahead of Winthop, literally as soon as they'd gotten wind that she might be part of the potential Whistleblower problem, but they needed to get away from her apartment before she got suspicious that they were onto her.

"You tend to like to cut things close," he said. He pulled his Colt from his shoulder holster under his jacket and double-checked the magazine while he had time. Just in case. The atmosphere smelled like rain, he noted. Electricity hung in the air and he could smell it even without morphing.

"Call it a specialty," Max responded. "God, I suck at picking locks. Why aren't you the one doing this up here?"

"Because one of us needs to watch the road, and if Winthop sees _you_, we're fucked," he told her, his thumb pressing hard into the safety switch. "Were you not paying attention in briefing?"

"If the Director was the one talking, no." He heard a door squeak and he winced at the noise, loud in his earpiece.

Bane replaced his sidearm before he did something dangerous with it in his frustration. He rubbed a hand across his forehead. She was still a goddamned handful, no matter which version of her he had. To be fair, she was a little more submissive, as per the Clean, because her brain was wired to accept his commands and act on them. She was less apt to challenge him because of that, and definitely not in front of the rest of the team. She wasn't a robot and her brain was more formidable than the few others the School had tried to Clean. She didn't start frying as quickly as they had, and he knew that was because she was fighting so hard against him internally the entire time.

But because many of the previous subjects hadn't actually ever escaped or survived outside of the School, most that had undergone Cleaning weren't even good to use. There were many with no fighting skills, no abilities outside of being able to breathe and somewhat talk. And none of them had ever _imprinted_ on him the way she had. It was one thing to have control over the brain of another person, but to have her body react the way it did? It was mystifying and it satisfied his ego in a way he'd never felt before.

Max was the golden subject. Intelligent, obstinate, talkative, and _unbreakable_. He was amazed they'd ever been able to find that perfect number to secure the Alter, and quiet frankly a little surprised that the Director was willing to risk Maximum Ride, the first of Project Icarus and one of the oldest experiments still alive.

But orders were orders.

She made a sound of surprise and he swung towards the building.

"What?" He had his hand on the door knob before she could answer.

"A cat," she breathed. "Scared the crap out of me."

Bane shook his head and leaned it against the doorway for a moment. "Seriously?"

"Don't even start with me," she grumbled. He bristled at her snap, annoyed that she was speaking as if _she_ were in charge, as if he couldn't just state an order into his comms unit and have her follow it without hesitation. Sometimes she needed reminding that he could do that, and up until two days ago, he had no problem demonstrating his power over her.

But then she'd was always so pissed afterwards, and that was more of a pain to deal with than her occasional snaps. Sure, she was more dutiful, but she still didn't accept the 'ordering' business lying down. Gunther-Hagen couldn't program that trait out of her Cloned Alter if they tried.

So they'd made a pact two days ago. He wouldn't order her to do things and trigger that mechanical switch in her brain that followed instructions like a machine as long as she just _listened _and did them on her own.

He let it slide and glanced at his watch. "Eight minutes."

"Take your pick, lamp or vase?"

Bane glanced down the road and saw a small car coming. Whether or not it was Winthop's he couldn't yet tell. "Whichever is closer to the center of the room. The bug needs to pick up as much as possible."

"Vase it is," she confirmed. "Any hints on where the files are?"

His eyes were trained on the car, and he watched it turn into a parking garage up the street. "No. That's why it's secondary. We don't have time to search the whole computer."

"Maybe _you_ don't."

He glared at the brick building. "Parker," he chastised, her alias still new on his tongue.

"Do you know how many buildings she broke into over the years?" Max said. "How many files she stole? I got this. Everything she knows up until the Cloning, I know. And now everything else I know comes from sitting in the back of her damn head, watching you torture—"

"We talked about this," Bane rumbled, pressing his teeth together. "I told you I wouldn't hurt _you_."

"_I know_. Doesn't stop the fucking nightmares though, does it?"

Like there was anything he could do about that. And now she was pissing him off even more and if he didn't get control of her now, show her he was still the Alpha and that she better _watch herself_, he was going to do something he'd regret later.

He pushed a sharp breath through his nose and gave her a warning. "You better not get pissed if I have to _order _you out of that building. When I tell you to get out, you need to get out."

She didn't respond and he knew it annoyed her to be reminded. But she'd just have to live with it, dammit. He heard her typing away at the computer, reading under her breath. After another five blessedly silent minutes, a new car came down the street. This time, he knew it was Winthop. He could smell the lilac perfume even from here.

"Time's up," he said, pulling his pistol and dropping back into the alleyway to help conceal himself further.

"Almost there," she insisted.

"We don't have time," he hissed.

"Technically, you gave me twelve minutes. It's been nine."

He swore under his breath and watched Winthop's car pull into the parking garage to his left, the one attached to her apartment building. He stuck to the shadows and ducked into the garage to keep an eye on her car.

"_Parker_."

"Thirty seconds," she promised. "Then I'm out. Trust me."

Winthop locked her the door of her dark blue Impala, and he memorized the license plate in case there was more than one person at the School with the same model. Doubtful, but precautionary. He'd be searching it sometime tomorrow, if her apartment revealed nothing. Winthop walked to the elevator inside the parking garage. "You've got maybe a minute. She's headed toward the elevator."

"So shoot her," Max said casually. "I'd bet my knives she's guilty anyway."

He growled into the comms unit, watching Winthop disappear behind the silver doors of the elevator. "How much bloodlust did _she_ have that's made yours rage so out of control?"

"Who knows," she replied. "Some things are easy to call my own, some things we share. We share a lot of things."

"Believe me," he drawled, avoiding the gaze of a few teenagers hanging around and jogging back around to the service entrance. "I've noticed. Your ability to piss me off being one of those."

"At least I haven't tried to kill you yet," she joked. "Oh, shit." Her tone changed completely. He shoved his Colt back into the shoulder holster. "I thought you said she was taking the elevator!" she whispered.

"She is," he said, swinging through the door and wedging a rock in the way so that it didn't click shut. Always have an easy exit.

"Well someone is unlocking the front door," she told him.

"_Go hide_," he ordered. Max didn't retort and he knew she had responded automatically. He really didn't want to deal with a dead body tonight, whether it ended up being hers or whoever came through that door. It was worth whatever anger from her he was going to have to deal with later.

Bane pulled open the rusty elevator junction box near the service door and flipped the switches inside. Then he took off up the concrete stairs to the fourth floor. He went through the hall door and past the elevator shaft, distantly hearing Winthop shouting in the stuck metal box.

"Where are you?" Bane said. He didn't hear anything else in the quiet hall, and he made his way to Winthop's door. He wished he had eyes on the apartment from outside, but this wasn't exactly in the plan. Who had come inside the apartment? Winthop was unmarried, as far as he knew.

"Hall closet," she whispered back, sounding none too happy. Whether at him or at this new development, he couldn't tell. "It's a woman. Petite, not packing. Probably not a threat."

He steeled himself and pulled his jacket to rights to make sure his holster was concealed, then knocked on Winthop's perfectly-painted front door, avoiding the disgustingly glitter-covered decoration that read 'Happy 4th of July!' surrounded by tiny model fireworks. He heard the woman shuffle around and then the door swung open with a loud squeak. She was short, probably just over five feet tall, brunette, maybe twenty years old. She was swathed in a University of Ohio sweatshirt that nearly engulfed her.

"Can I help you?" she asked, voice light, curious. Not threatened at all. He gave her an easy smile. He was well aware of his good looks and the way he seemed to disarm most people with a friendly grin and a tilt of his head.

"I live down the hall," he started, and he spotted the closet just to her right, the vertical slats too wide for comfort in terms of concealment. He cocked his head to the side in what he hoped looked like confusion. "I don't think we've met."

The woman smiled back at him. "That's not surprising. I don't live here, this is my mom's place."

"Ah," he said. "I didn't know Delaney had children." If they'd had more than half an hour before learning Winthop was a threat, he might have had time to research that and limit their likelihood of getting caught. As it was, they'd only had enough time to get her address and the blueprints of the apartment building.

"Just one," she said with a tinkling laugh. "Did you need something?"

"An egg, if your mother has one," he said. "Turns out I'm one short for a cake."

"Oh, sure," she said, stepping away from the door. "Let me check and see if she's got any. Come in."

It was so easy. People were way too trusting. Bane stepped across the threshold, boots sinking into the plush carpeting. He followed the woman into the pristine kitchen, so clean it reminded him of the labs at the School. From the corner of his eye, he saw Max emerge from the hall closet. Instead of opening the front door, she slid into another room. He clenched his jaw and refrained from asking just what the hell she was doing.

"What are you making a cake for?" the woman asked, opening the Frigidaire brand refrigerator. The cat that had scared Max earlier wound between his legs, took a sniff at him, and then went skittering into another room. Animals were much better at sensing danger. The fact that he probably smelled like a wolf helped, too.

Keep lies simple. Don't overindulge. "My girlfriend's birthday," he said, stuffing his hands in his jacket. Max snorted in his ear.

"Oh, that's sweet," the woman said, pulling out an egg carton. "Wish my boyfriend would do that. Only thing I get from him are the hoodies I occasionally steal."

Bane took the egg she held out and laughed good-naturedly.

"I'm out. It's raining buckets," Max grumbled. "Meet you at the car."

The woman led him back to the door and pulled it open. "Thanks," he said, holding the egg up.

She nodded with a smile. "Sure. Have a good night!"

As soon as the door shut, he was loping back down the hall towards the service stairwell. He'd been up there maybe two and a half minutes, probably not long enough for anyone to notice the elevator was stuck and get all the way down to the box to fix it. He took the steps down three at a time, then flipped all the switches back on inside the junction box.

"There a reason you decided to take the window route?" he said into the comms unit.

"The front door was squeaky. Couldn't very well sneak out without that thing making a racket," she responded dryly.

Smart. He'd been too preoccupied making sure she was hidden that he hadn't even paid much attention. He kicked the rock out from the service door and let it fall shut. She was right, it had started raining hard, thunder rolling lowly off to the east.

"Nice catch," he complimented. "Though it wouldn't have been an issue if you would have left when I told you to."

"You won't be saying that when you see what I've got," she said. "And don't think I'm all that happy with you and your commands."

His face darkened and he ducked his head against the downpour to jog across the street. "It was for your own good."

"It's been two days and you've already broken our deal. I could have handled the situation."

"It's not that I thought you couldn't handle it," he said, taking a left down another alleyway and finding her leaning against his black Suburban SUV. He pulled his comms unit from his ear and shut the tiny device off. "But this was supposed to be a clean mission. In and out. No mess."

"Not like it's my fault the daughter showed up," Max said, removing her own comm from underneath the hood of her jacket. She'd tried to keep herself protected from the elements, but it hadn't worked. She was drenched and he popped open the trunk of the SUV for shield from the rain.

"You said you had something for me," he said, changing the topic and hopefully distracting her from her annoyance for now. She dug into the pockets of her dark cargo pants and produced a USB.

"Found the files. Also managed some archived emails. Bug might not be necessary," she said with a grin.

"Bugs are always necessary," he muttered. He took the USB from her and tossed her the egg. She made a face and he pulled open the duffle bag in the back of the car. He pushed aside his spare magazines, her knives that he'd told her she wouldn't need (which, quite frankly, he was glad she hadn't had them. She tended to shoot first, ask questions later), and the change of clothing they both always kept in the car. He tossed her the dry gear and she nabbed them, stripping off her soaked jacket and top.

He found the government issue laptop and pulled it out next, shoving the USB into the side of it. Max dumped her wet clothes and the egg on the bumper next to him, yanking on the spare gear. Bane powered on the computer and watched her toss the egg in the air when she was done, deftly catching it with nimble fingers.

"Any rush for us to get back?" she asked, taking a quick 360. But they were alone in the darkening alleyway, streets mostly silent around them. The overhead lamp from inside the SUV was quickly becoming their only source of light.

"Why, do you have plans?" he droned, knowing she didn't. He brought up the program that would activate the bug and clicked around until he heard feedback. Winthrop was in the apartment now, from what he could tell, complaining about the faulty elevator wiring. He smirked.

"No. Which is why I was wondering if we needed to get back right away. Less time spent inside that place, the better." She didn't meet his eyes when he glanced at her.

"Your room not working for you?" he asked, taking stock of the files. There weren't too many, but the archived emails could save them a lot of time if they offered evidence that Winthop was a problem. He clicked through them quickly and frowned.

"It's fine," she sighed, then spun and lobbed the egg at the side of the building. It cracked open high on the brick wall with a gross _splat_. "I'm just bored. Most of my time is spent training or waiting around for you and Hans to plan."

"Well then it's a good thing this case is only getting bigger by the minute," he muttered. "Come take a look at this."

She zipped to his side and peered around his shoulder, her fingers tentatively wrapping around his bicep. She touched him a lot more freely now. It was enthralling to watch her, to see how much she liked it and then observe the way she handled it. "Uh, wow. I thought this was limited to like, two or three people. We're up to, what, ten now?"

He hummed and copied the CC list of the e-mail in front of him. There were another four names attached to the incriminating document. Winthop was definitely involved. He sent all the names off to Gunther-Hagen and set the laptop aside, still open so the bug could do its work. "Looks like you won't be bored for long."

She peeled her hand off of him and took a breath. "Excellent. Then I guess we better get back so the games can begin."

* * *

**Thanks for stopping by! Drop me a line if you have anything to say.**


	4. Naked (M)

**Rated M for lemon.**

**I've been promising this for weeks, but I suck. I never got it to my beta, either, and I kept putting it off. So I'm just biting the bullet and posting it.**

**Max and Fang's night, during chapter 26. Here ya go.**

* * *

**NAKED**

We weren't exactly _sober_.

That much was clear as we stumbled up the stairs, nearly tripping twice. But I could still recite medical jargon inside my head when I tested myself, so I figured I was cognizant enough.

My hand was still in Fang's and he pulled me backwards halfway up the stairs, snagging me around the waist so his lips could brush the shell of my ear. I batted at one of his arms and groped for the banister with the other, trying to keep from laughing or groaning or melting into him or all of the above.

"I said upstairs, not _on the stairs,_" I hissed, biting hard on my lip when he spun me around.

"Taking advantage of the similar height," he said, one stair below me, nose level with my eyes. He kissed me hard, wrapping both arms around my middle while mine found their way around his neck.

He practically radiated heat. His hands dropped again, feeling down the sides of my legs and grasping the hem of my scrub shirt in his fists. He dragged it up my thighs and over my hips until he could get his fingers around my ribcage.

I sighed into his mouth, heart pounding so hard I thought it would burst straight out of my chest. In a flurry of movement, he pulled the oversized top over my head and my arms helped him every step of the way, twisting out of the garment.

He let it fall from his fingers somewhere behind him on the stairs and the ridiculous thought of what bra I was wearing dropped into my head. I'd slept at Spencer's last night—which meant it was an old t-shirt bra, something I could spare to keep at his place.

Of course. God forbid I be sporting something nice.

It didn't seem to matter to Fang either way.

"You saw me in a bra last week," I reminded him when he pulled back, drinking me in for several long, toe-curling seconds. "Granted, that was a sports bra…"

"Believe me," he said, smoothing his hands over my sides. "That was a difficult moment. And you're in a little less than that right now."

His fingers brushed purposefully over the waistband of my underwear and my stomach clenched excitedly, breath hitching in my chest.

"Had one of those myself," I admitted, dancing my hands down his chest. "I almost kissed you that morning."

"Would have saved me a lot of trouble."

I hummed and leaned into him, kissing his chin, his jaw, letting my fingers curl into his pockets. "I've always been a lot of trouble for you."

He grabbed my thigh, hooking it up around his waist and pulling me off the steps. I followed his lead, moving to wrap my other leg around him but I knocked my knee against the banister with a dull thump.

I cursed, pain radiating through my kneecap, and his chest rumbled with laughter.

"Oh, shut up," I grumbled, threading my fingers into his hair. He felt for my leg and boosted me up, staggering his way up the rest of the stairs and moving through the hall blindly, his lips preoccupied with mine.

My bedroom door was closed when he got there and we bumped into it. I groped for the doorknob and twisted it, shoving the door open with the flat of my hand and snapping on the light. Fang pushed through and dumped me onto my bed, dropping his weight onto me so fast my breath left me.

"Sorry," he muttered, but I just felt everything pressed against me all over again.

And when I say everything, I mean _everything_.

I closed my eyes and shifted under him. "Door. Close the door. Iggy and Nudge—_especially _Iggy—"

He pushed off me to click the door shut and I pressed a hand to my forehead, looking at the ceiling, breathing hard.

I realized Fang hadn't come back to me after a couple seconds and I pulled up onto my elbows. He was standing at the door still, looking at me with that same shameless longing expression from last night.

"Fang?" He blinked, spurred out of his thoughts. "You alright?" I asked, just to make sure. I'd started all of this. I mean, he'd talked first, told me how he felt about me, but I'd kissed him first, started pulling his clothes off first, suggested that final frontier of heading up here first…

He trailed back over to me, a small, lopsided grin spreading across his face. "Shouldn't I be the one asking you that?" he said, brushing his thumb over my knee.

"Not necessarily," I responded seriously, standing from the bed. His eyes raked over me again.

"I'm fine," he assured. "You're just…"

I reached forward, settling my fingers on his belt. "Just…?"

"Beautiful," he said, eyes hooded, taking my face in his hands. "Mine again. Half naked, right in front of me."

My heart fluttered, tiny butterfly wings beating inside my chest and I pulled his belt open. "And I'm not even in my good underwear," I teased.

His mouth smashed against mine and I unbuttoned his pants, jerking down the zipper and tugging his jeans down his thighs. I was on him again, pulling him down to my height as he shoved his pants off his ankles. I spun us and pushed him down onto the bed, climbing into his arms.

He drew me onto his lap and without his jeans, I could _really_ feel him, hot and firm against the inside of my thigh.

I had no experience personally in this area. I'd shut out everything _else_ as often as possible—

I shook my head internally. Fang was it. Fang was the first _for me_.

His lips left mine and he nosed my chin to the side, trailing his mouth down my throat and over my collarbones, tracking flames over my skin. His hands played at my bra, thumbs following the band from my sides to my front until they were pressing between my breasts.

I reached behind me with one hand to snap open the clasp of my bra and he was there a second later, pulling the cups from me, helping me slide the whole thing off my arms.

His hands were greedy immediately. There wasn't even time for me to feel self-conscious before he was pressing and palming, thumbing over the hypersensitive skin of my breasts. Goosebumps sprouted across my chest from under his fingertips sending shivers down to my toes and I gasped in his ear.

He twisted me under him, pinning me to the bed with his body between my knees and then his mouth joined one of his hands, scorching and wet.

"Oh, _man,_" I panted unattractively, blushing hard and wrapping my legs around his back.

"You're so _soft_," he murmured, swiping a thumb under one of my breasts. He made a noise in his throat as I arched into him. "I want to touch every inch of you."

I had a hard time breathing for a moment, lungs freezing with anticipation. I bit back another sound trying to break free from my mouth and pushed my hands around his back, running my fingers through his feathers. "Then do it," I whispered. His mouth sucked hard at my jaw. "Touch me, kiss me, I don't care, just don't stop."

Fang growled low, snagging my earlobe in his teeth. "Don't plan to."

"Oh, good," I breathed, feeling my way over the leathery base of his wings and down to the small of his back. "We're on the same page, then."

His lips felt like the freaking _sun_ as they made their way back to my chest and my eyes screwed shut. My entire torso tightened and I pressed my head hard back into the mattress, nervous and elated and unbelievably electrified by his _touch_.

He reached behind him and tugged my ankles apart, moving down my body. He explored me with his mouth and tongue and his fingers, dragging down my stomach until he got to my hips.

Which were apparently ticklish.

I sucked in a breath. "Fang—" I laughed and squirmed under him. "Don't you dare, I won't be held responsible for what my foot ends up kicking," I warned, curling up a leg and pressing my toes into his thigh. He looked up at me with a wicked grin, teasing my hipbone with a light kiss before continuing down my thigh, over my knee and _oh, God._

Every touch was so gentle, so deliberately placed, it was almost overwhelming. I'd _never_ been touched like this, with so much reverence and utter care. My dream last night was ridiculous in comparison, half-formed with snippets of Fang's breath in my ear and my legs wrapped around his sides.

This was real and tender, one press of his strong fingers followed by his gloriously blistering mouth. He worked his way back up my other leg, skipping my hip this time and instead spending extra time at each of my ribs.

"You weren't joking," was the absurd comment that came from my lips, because it was either that or an unadulterated groan.

"Why would I joke," he said, dragging his nose between my breasts and looking up at me from under his lashes, "about wanting to touch you?"

"It was more the 'every inch' part of the sentence," I said, pushing his hair out of his face with my fingers so I could see his eyes, watching them burn black with want.

"I mean everything I've said so far," he said, pausing with his lips a breath from mine. Then, he rolled off me.

"What about the 'not stopping' part," I said, lolling my head to watch him move up to my pillows. "This counts as _stopping_."

He pushed the pillows into a stack and settled into them, then patted the space between his knees. "C'mere."

"What was wrong with the _end _of the bed?" I grumbled, turning over and crawling up to him. He pulled me to his chest, careful of my wings between us, and I was reminded all over again of what the end goal here was when his still hidden friend pressed into my lower back.

Warmth pooled between my thighs and my fingers clenched into the bed sheets.

"Can't reach everything I want if you're half-hidden under me," he said quietly into my ear, hands settling just under the base of my wings, large palms trapping heat to my skin. His thumbs pressed on either side of my spine and my shoulders dropped forward. His fingertips were barely-there as they travelled down my back and around my waist.

It was about then that I remembered all of my scars. They're so light and hard to see unless someone was _really_ looking or had fantastic eyes.

Fang had fantastic eyes _and_ he was looking.

"There are a lot I don't recognize," he said, one of his fingers tracing a scar at the dip of my waist. I squirmed a little when he found another at my hip, longer and deeper.

"They're from training," I said quietly, suddenly warm in an unpleasant way. "With the knives."

I stared hard at my dark television across the room, not wanting to imagine the way his face might twist in a multitude of emotions.

Which was stupid, because he hadn't ever looked at me with pity or disgust with anything I'd told him so far.

But here I was, sitting between his knees in nothing but my underwear, with sex on our minds. Vulnerability was pretty much the name of the game.

I took one of his hands and pulled it into my lap, running my fingers over the lines on his palm so I wasn't sitting still and doing nothing, thinking about the things I couldn't control.

"Max." His lips pressed into my shoulder blade, chin brushing the ridge of my wing, and his hand stilled at my hip.

"They're a part of me," I told him, turning his hand over, touching my fingers to each of his knuckles. "They're a reminder of everything."

"They're your story," he said, wrapping his free arm around my waist and pulling me flush to him. "The good and the bad."

"There's a lot of bad," I warned him, gripping his hand and turning to look at him over my shoulder as best as I could. "This isn't going to be easy."

His eyes were dark, but they were open. "I know. I told you in the warehouse that I wasn't going anywhere, and I meant it."

I spun completely in his lap so I could face him. There was nothing but honesty in his eyes. A combination of terror and absolute encouragement surged through me all over again, and I could feel my chest swelling with optimism.

We weren't being unrealistic here. We both knew this was going to be a long road for me. And for him, because he wanted to help, to be by my side through it all.

I cupped his face in my hands and leaned my forehead to his. "Thank you."

Our next kiss was soft and sweet, full of promise, but it warmed up quickly. I pressed against him, straddling him on my knees, chest to chest. I worked his mouth open under mine, inhaling everything that he was, everything he offered.

His hands consumed me, dragging down my sides, thumbs gliding over the plane of my stomach. His fingers got to the waistband of my underwear and they stilled for a moment before travelling around back and over the swell of my ass.

The gentle atmosphere snapped and I could feel it in the air, the sizzle of tension and raw energy. I inhaled sharply, feeling each of the pads of his fingers on me.

He pressed me down into his lap and then he was right there, separated by two layers of cotton. My breath caught in my throat and my hips jerked, just slightly, but enough to start a flood of sensations.

Fang's body tensed under me and his fingers clamped into the black cotton of my underwear. He nipped at my lips and I laughed a little breathlessly, rolling my hips against him again. I dropping my hands to his chest and scratched lightly at him with my fingernails, feeling my way over defined muscles.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he mumbled against my lips, dipping under the waistband of my underwear so that his fingers on my skin again. I rocked against him a few more times, noticing his boxers get tighter beneath me with each pass, feeling so in control, so in charge.

"I think I have a bit of an idea," I said, dragging my fingertips over the raised ridges of age-old scars until I hit the elastic of his boxers.

Everything was starting to feel very, very hot. My chest was hot, the skin behind my knees was hot, gathering sweat the longer I sat on top of him like this. His mouth broke from mine and went back to my chest, sucking hard on delicate skin, teeth grazing flesh.

A long, low moan broke straight past my lips, and then his hands were pushing my underwear over my hips. I pulled away from him, rocking back onto my ass between his legs so he could slide the fabric over my thighs, past my knees, catching at my ankles before tossing them somewhere to his left.

I was back in his lap immediately, kissing him hard, threading my fingers through his hair and securing him to me with all my strength. His hips started moving the same time mine did and we ground together, desperately seeking each other's heat and fingers and mouths.

"Oh, God," I croaked, burying my face in his shoulder, feeling deliciously tingly. I became super aware of my pulse thumping between my legs, especially when Fang's fingers moved to wrap high on my thighs to pull us closer together. "Fang—"

I couldn't help gasping his name into his ear, straining to keep quiet. I had no idea I would be out on control of my own voice, and I bit my lip hard.

My hair on my neck was starting to feel too warm, sticking to my skin. I let go of him long enough to pull it all over one shoulder and out of the way, catching the look of complete hunger on his face that sent everything in my body trembling.

"Max—" he started, but his sentence died in his throat. His eyes fell shut and then suddenly I was on my back again, nestled into the pillows, completely naked with my knees spread wide to accommodate his body.

We got frantic. He held my face in his hands, kissing me so hard I could feel my lips bruising. I pushed at his clothing, shoving his boxers down his hips until I couldn't get them down any farther. My feet tried to take over but they didn't get very far before all of _him_ was pressed against all of _me_.

He was smooth and firm and bumping right against my folds and both of us made animalistic noises into each other's mouths. I felt like I was leaking molten heat as he ground down, hands wedging under my shoulders. I opened my eyes to see his squeezed shut tightly. I grasped at his arms and pressed my knees against his sides. It felt like there was a void inside me, a sensation of emptiness that was unexpectedly strong and dear _Lord_, I knew exactly what I needed on instinct.

I reached down between us with surprisingly stable fingers to wrap around his length. His skin was soft, slightly sticky from rubbing against me, slickened with my arousal.

"Shit, Max," he swore, hips stuttering. I answered with a small noise, a little nervous as I tilted my hips up. Fang looked down between us and stilled, letting me move him into position, sliding him between my swollen lips and slipping his tip into me.

My body tightened against the intrusion. Technically, _technically,_ this was my first time, too. Maybe not my body's, but definitely mine. I held on to that thought hard, held onto the picture of Fang's almost-black eyes, just as wild and filled with the same need I felt.

He pushed forward a couple inches, hips rolling, but I clenched up without meaning to, halting his progress. My fingers brushed low against his stomach.

"Sorry," I said before he could get a word out. I flushed deep red, but he just placed a sticky kiss on my jaw. "I'm just…"

My whole body was twitching, absolutely aching for him but the nerves were starting to get to me.

And at this point, there really was no turning back. We were so worked up it was absurd, breathy and both so willing, and he was already partly inside me.

I was overthinking. My brain had gone straight to whether first times mattered and I was doing a great job of psyching myself out.

"Is it…I'm not…hurting you, am I?" he asked, peering down at me with furrowed brows.

My heart thumped hard. "_No_. _Fang, _no, you're making me feel…"

I shifted underneath him, blocking out my thoughts, focusing on his weight crushing me satisfyingly to the sheets, the absolutely heart-pounding excitement of having him to myself again, his hips slotted against mine, his fingers pressing into my shoulder blades, his willingness to stick with me through all of this, his cock pushing into me…

I swallowed thickly. "Everything. More than I've let myself feel in years. I want you, I do," I breathed, staring up at him, smoothing his concerned expression with my fingertips. "I just…need to relax."

He looked thoughtful for a moment, eyes flicking between both of mine. Carefully, he rolled us over so I was on top of him, and he kicked out of his boxers.

"We'll go at your pace, then." He tapped his fingers against my thigh. "You're in charge."

I hesitated, then nodded. "Okay," I whispered, letting myself breathe out, taking a moment to drink him in under me.

_Chill_, I told myself. This was Fang. Fang was under me, his back against the headboard, fingers clasping my legs. He was the only person I could ever picture being with this way or in any way involving a future. He was _mine_. And man, he was gorgeous: rumpled black hair sticking up at all angles, toned torso connecting to a fantastic pelvic 'V', and curly, dark pubic hair leading to his dick.

I pulled myself up on my knees a bit and took him into my hand again, getting familiar with his anatomy, stroking down his velvety shaft once. It was standing at attention, head deep red and glistening a little. I leaned forward to kiss the corner of his mouth and then pressed my forehead to his.

It took me two unhurried, deliberate passes before I started easing him into me again. Fang's thumbs smoothed over the inside of my thighs and I let myself unlock, sinking down around him slowly.

"Oh, _fuck_." The words tumbled from my lips at a combination of feelings. I felt stretched unbelievably thin, somewhat uncomfortable, but _filled_ in a way that was utterly satisfying.

I'm not entirely unfamiliar with how to make myself feel all tingly and wonderful down there. But _a hand_ is much different than _Fang._

Fang's arms cinched around me and the most content-sounding noise came from him when I settled into his lap.

"Alright?" he asked as my muscles clamped on their own, adjusting around him.

All I could do was nod. If someone had told me a month ago that my Flock would come hurtling back in my life, and that I'd be naked and panting and sweating on top of Fang within weeks, I simply would have thrown my head back and laughed.

Instead, I was speechless. I literally didn't know what to say.

So I didn't say anything. I settled my arms around his shoulders and let my actions do all the talking.

The first movement was unsteady. I rose up slowly, trying to get a feel for how much I could move, kind of just going on primal need.

Fang's hands slid down my waist and settled just under my ass, helping me lower and lift again, going with my slow pace, and the discomfort bled away into a prickle of tickling pleasure. A half-formed groan slipped past Fang's lips and fanned against my face.

"You feel so good," he told me, unashamed. I blushed hard, fumbling for words and finding none. Of course, _of course_, Fang would be the one who knew what to say and I'd be—

Fang met me halfway, thrusting into me tentatively as I was coming back down and sudden flames of _holy shit_ burst like a firecracker from a spot inside me all the way through my body. I inhaled sharply and twisted a hand into the hair at the nape of his neck.

He froze immediately, holding himself still. "Ma—"

"Don't stop," I interrupted, grinding down onto him, trying to get him to keep moving. "Do that again."

His eyes found mine and it only took him a second to realize I hadn't gasped in pain.

He renewed his grip on me and then he was returning my movements, pushing up into me. My hips went mindlessly seeking, trying to find the right angle, shifting and gyrating and moving to pursue that feeling again while the rest of me clung to him.

We found it after a few adjustments and fumbles. A sound I've never made before came from my lips, an embarrassing combination of a mewl and a moan.

"_Fang,_" I crooned, brushing my nose against his, concentrating on his body, on the smell of his skin, the racing beat of his heart, his slick cock. The sharp shocks of pleasure built and died between thrusts, and I finally found my tongue so I could tell him what I wanted. "Faster, Fang, please—"

We sped up, the incredibly dirty sound of skin slapping skin lost among exceedingly hard-to-control moans from me. Each time our hips connected, I could feel the coil in my belly winding tighter and tighter.

My hands lost purchase on him, too much movement and jerking muscles, so I fixed one on the headboard by the side of his head. His lips turned to kiss the skin on the inside of my elbow and I melted into him further.

My eyes had pinched shut at some point and I pried them open, taking in Fang's face, eyes also closed, brow creased heavily, stunning, full lips parted. I attacked them, taking his bottom lip between my teeth and pulling it into my mouth.

Then our tongues were battling, pushing, twisting together, and the blend of our mouths with the amazing heat going on down below formed an intensity I wasn't prepared for.

I felt so, so good and safe and _alive, _naked in more ways than one, and I didn't care what happened in the next _year_ as long as I had this, as long as I had _him_. I could take on the whole damn world with him by my side.

I couldn't breathe suddenly, gripped in an eager sort of exhilaration and I couldn't keep my mouth on his anymore. He pulled one hand away from under my thighs and moved it to cup a breast, ducking his head to pull a nipple between his teeth. I cried out rather noisily before clapping a hand over my own mouth.

"Christ, Max," Fang growled against me, placing a wet kiss at the center of my chest. He tugged my hand away from my mouth and pressed his lips to my palm. "I love hearing you."

My teeth sunk into my lip and I curled my fingers into his. "Don't wanna wake—" I tried to tell him, but I cut off with a high-pitched sound as he pushed up into me exceedingly deep, holding himself there for a moment, hitting something hidden and making my knees shake on either side of him.

"Oh, my God," I managed to squeak out, freezing on top of him, unable to move at all, teetering dangerously.

Fang's mouth found mine and he did it again, wrapping his hands around my waist, burying himself in me so, so deep. I wrapped my fingers around the headboard, unable to stop the keening moan that bubbled up from my chest and out of my mouth. His lips acted as a buffer, swallowing and dampening the noise so that only he could hear it, only he could have it. He took over completely, the muscles of his arms bunching as he dragged me back up his shaft.

I gripped him hard as he pulled almost out of me and my nerves tingled all at once, quivering, anticipatory, trembling—

He pressed me back down, thrusting back into me in the smoothest, most solid, single motion and I lost it, snapped like a rubber band stretched too tight, clenching firmly around him, liquefying from the very core of my being to unravel around him.

His hands on me constricted and he grunted while I went boneless, clamping and fluttering, pulled under by intense waves of indescribable bliss and making noises that he absorbed. His cock pumped into me a few more times, movements jerky and irregular until he too lost control.

Fang stilled under me, abdominal muscles contracting under one of my hands. He bent forward, pressing his forehead into my collarbone, and I felt him pulse, spurting hotly inside me.

I slumped, wrapping my arms around his shoulders, lacing my fingers into his hair and cradling his head to my chest while we both tried to catch our breath.

I hadn't noticed during the actual act, but my thighs were burning, knees aching from straddling Fang. But the feeling of him softening, coming down from such an intense release, just _sitting _so vulnerably with me felt perfect. I didn't want to give up that connection, not yet.

I rocked sideways to pull my legs up and wrap them around his waist, shoving them between his body and the headboard. His dick twitched inside me, a half-hearted throb, and my entire chest filled like a balloon with satisfaction.

I scratched my nails gently against Fang's scalp as he took a few minutes to peel his hands away from me. His fingers left depressions on my stomach and he brushed over the marks lightly, trying to smooth the skin.

"Held me a little tight there, did you?" I asked with a soft smile.

"Didn't want to let you go," he said back, lifting his head. "Still don't."

He pulled us sideways onto our sides and I caught my leg around him to keep him from slipping out. "You're noisy," he commented.

I breathed a laugh. "Apparently. I really hope we didn't wake either of them."

His fingers trailed over my side and down into the dip of my waist. "We?"

His eyes were teasing but soft and I just tugged on his hair a little in retaliation. "Takes two to tango. I don't make those sounds on my own," I told him. "And no matter how quiet, I heard those grunts and groans coming from you, so yes, _we._"

He grinned a little and pulled me into his chest. I curled my head under his chin, snuggling into his warmth.

We were quiet for a while, lying in my bed and growing sleepy. I needed to get up and pee but I didn't want to climb out of this little bubble just yet.

Eventually though, I couldn't ignore the sticky situation between my thighs. I uncurled my leg from around his waist and slipped him out of me, rising and padding quickly to my bathroom.

I didn't expect to feel_ sore_, but it was there, an ache that made me grin and curl my toes into the bathmat under my feet.

I used the toilet and washed up, then hit the lights and went back to Fang.

He'd pulled the blankets into some semblance of order and turned off the big, overhead light. My dim tableside lamp was on instead, and it made the room feel cozy and warm.

Fang glanced up at me as he sunk back into my bed.

_Our _bed, if I had anything to say about it.

The thought made me unbelievably happy as I wandered over, feeling his eyes jump all over my figure. I loosened my wings a little, crawling into bed next to him, and he pulled my back to his chest.

"I might be noisy, but you're handsy," I said, reshuffling my wings between us.

"Sorry," he said, but I could hear the unapologetic smirk in his voice. I rolled a little in his direction.

"I like it," I murmured, kissing him lightly. Fang's hand stroked over my stomach and I laced my fingers into his. He wrapped one of his giant, silky wings around us both.

I sighed contentedly and reached up to turn off my lamp, plunging us into darkness. I wiggled back into him, secure in his arms, and I fell into the easiest sleep in years.


	5. Mental (T) 1 of 2

**Spencer's POV from chapter 25, where he was attacked. Starts off just before Max talks to him on the phone and continues through to part of his stay in the hospital. **

**Spencer, when left to his own devices, gets pretty scatter-brained. He's more optimistic than the rest of the Flock, and he fancies himself relatively helpful to those in need. He's a helper and a lover, and though he doesn't give his trust freely, he certainly doesn't like turning down someone who needs a friend. **

**There are two parts to this little arc, because it started to stretch to something like seventeen pages, and I didn't want too much all stuffed into one little lost chapter. **

**Unbeta'd.**

* * *

**MENTAL**

**SPENCER **

_Well, this day sucks already._

Spencer rubbed at his eyes and pretended to give a damn to the person on the phone. He should have known the day was going to be nothing but trouble. Not only because Carly Something-Or-Another wouldn't stop blabbering on in his ear, but also because Max had clearly slept like shit and was lying about it. Then there was her Fang issue, and she wasn't nearly as subtle as she thought when it came to that.

He worked in the entertainment business. It was his _job_ to make sure his clients' personal affairs didn't get out of order and leaked to the press. Which meant he was also very good at spotting someone trying to _hide_ something. Well, and because he'd been trained to spot something like that when he was, like, thirteen.

Spencer sighed internally, listening to Carly describe terms and conditions to an appearance for Max that he was no longer interested in booking. Too much Max for too little money, and they weren't looking to negotiate costs.

He fished for his keys inside his suit jacket, picturing Max's appearance last night when she nearly tripped down the stairs before dinner. She'd had hours to get ready, but her fingers combed through her hair like she'd had minutes instead. Her face and chest were flushed, eyes bright, but troubled.

He knew the moment she smoothed her hands down the skirt of her black cocktail dress.

She tried to hide it. That's what Max did; she hid things until they exploded on her, like somehow that was better than just talking it out.

She couldn't hide things from him no matter how hard she tried. Not anymore. So yeah, she finger-combed her hair in a 'subtle' way and grazed her lips with her fingers before sinking her teeth into the bottom one. She flattened her skirt with her palms, reshuffled her awesome tawny wings under her dress—and pretended like she hadn't just been kissing Fang upstairs, ten seconds before he showed up.

And he was totally going to cockblock them. He wasn't going to suggest that maybe, just maybe, he was coming down with something, and would she mind if they rescheduled for tomorrow night instead?

Nope. He and Fang weren't friends, not at all and, to be perfectly honest, Spencer didn't know if Fang was right for Max. He had no qualms with Fang personally but…

Max needed someone patient. Very patient. Fang was clearly understanding to her situation, and he wanted to know what could help her, but he wanted fast answers. How to break Max out of flashbacks _quickly_, how to make the nightmares go away _sooner_.

There was nothing fast about PTSD.

He interrupted Carly What's-It. "Thank you, Ms.…" he hesitated, caught on the fact that he didn't remember her name.

"_Winters_," came the chilly response, and Spencer shook his head, watching the elevator doors close around him. He poked the fourth floor button with his knuckle.

"Thank you, Ms. Winters, but my client's time is much more valuable these days. And she's not looking to model your clothing line."

_Mostly because she literally can't without exposing the whole, ya know, _wing_ thing. _

"Well, thank you very much for _wasting my time,_" Winters snapped back and hung up him.

He rolled his eyes and called Max back.

"Where are you?" Max barked, voice high-pitched. The elevator doors dinged open and he hesitated before walking towards his apartment door.

"Uh, literally walking into my apartment. Why?" he asked, shoving his keys into the lock. He sandwiched the phone between his shoulder and his cheek, jiggling the gleaming silver doorknob as it tried to trap his key.

"I think the mafia just sent me a warning," she said, and Spencer could hear the panic in her voice.

It took a second for him to realize what she'd said. He felt himself pale.

_"What?"_ he hissed, twisting the knob and sticking a foot through the door. He buzzed through everything he'd seen on his street, his self-surveillance a bit rusty with disuse in the last couple of years.

He couldn't remember seeing anything. He was followed sometimes, sure, usually by paparazzi looking to get to Max, but they weren't nearly as discrete as they thought they were.

"You need to get back in your car. Right now. They're probably watching you, they're probably right there."

"Max—" he tried to start, to reassure her. She was so paranoid right now, jumpy with that stupid walkie-talkie in her room, with all the secrets she had that she was slowly telling her friends, her lack of sleep…

But he hadn't really been paying attention, either. With Max's nightmares resurfacing, the School or Bane sending someone to the networking party to shatter her illusion of safety, and her three new friends, he wasn't watching out for himself.

"Your uncle is dead," she said bluntly, and Spencer froze, one hand on the doorknob, the other clenching hard around his phone. The keys, still dangling in the lock, clinked together musically.

Agostino? Dead?

It just…didn't compute in his head. Agostino was _untouchable_. He was getting older, somewhere in his sixties, but—

"They stuck a _Times_ newspaper in my mailbox. They circled letters, they left a _message, _Spencer."

That made even less sense. There was no way the mafia would warn Max, possibly the _only_ person that could help him, that they were going to after him again.

He said as much, or tried to. "Why would they—"

His phone was ripped from his hand. Someone shoved him face-first into the wall just inside his door, and he heard his phone smash to the ground right inside his kitchen.

Spencer grunted, bald confusion transforming into raw panic in milliseconds. The uncomfortable and unfortunately familiar feel of a gun barrel pressed into his lower back and his heart tried to eat its way up his throat.

_"Infine,"_ a gruff voice said in his ear, tongue thick with an Italian accent. "You thought you were so _sicuro, _huh?"

Oh, _hell_, no. Seriously?

Spencer didn't recognize the voice, and he turned his head to the side. A short man with a bald spot spoke, someone that was supposed to be part of his family, or at least close enough to be tasked with the mission of _killing_ him. He leaned against the wall next to Spencer.

"You could at least do me the decency of telling me your name before you kill me," Spencer spat, pressing his palms into the wall and trying desperately to think of something, _anything,_ to stall for time.

_You're not gonna die, you're not gonna die, you're not gonna die._

"Call me Moe, _fratello_," Moe said, smiling like he'd already won. "These are my friends Curly and Larry." He gestured first to the man jamming a gun into Spencer's back, and then to another man with a large, silver cross around his neck.

Spencer very nearly rolled his eyes, but the iron fists squeezing his gut made him think twice. "It's pretty bad luck to name yourselves after the Three Stooges," he said, because otherwise he was pretty sure he was going to shit his damn pants.

Curly pressed the gun into his back harder, bruising his spine, and Spencer squirmed. Larry went to close the apartment door, and Spencer felt his fate closing in on him, vision tunneling and heartbeat racing out of control.

Only, Larry had just clicked the door shut when things took a turn for the _weird_.

The door _exploded_. That was really the only way Spencer had to describe what happened. It smashed open, wooden doorjamb splintering inwards with a sharp _crack_.

He saw the doorknob dent the wall, and then two more people rushed in.

_And there goes my security deposit, goddammit._

Spencer was thoroughly fucked, but the ridiculous thought came to him anyway.

_You're going into shock, you idiot. You've got a gun. Get to it._

Five against one were shit odds, and even though Max knew he was in trouble, she was twenty minutes away.

But to his surprise, the two people that came through the door shoved away his attackers like swatting at flies.

Curly went soaring into his refrigerator, knocking down fast-food pamphlets and contact information. Spencer spun, catching the look of surprise on Moe's face before things went absolutely _insane_.

"_Che cazzo!" _Moe shouted, fumbling for something in his pants.

Spencer could only watch as Curly went onto the defensive, pointing his gun before it was knocked away. Then he and mystery rescuer number one went brawling across his kitchen, throwing punches, pulling drawers from the countertops, grabbing anything within reach.

"Hey!" Spencer shouted as the glass Max had left out went flying into a wall. It shattered on impact. "That was crystal!"

Then the second unknown man powered through Moe, and Spencer took advantage of the opportunity presented to him.

He had no idea what the fuck was going on, who the two mystery guests were, or how they knew Spencer was in trouble, but like he was going to waste any breathing room in a situation in which he was pretty sure he'd end up dead otherwise.

Larry was still near his door, so Spencer took off towards his bedroom, skidding around the corner and turning towards his bedroom.

Larry followed him. Right as Spencer crashed through his bedroom door, his feet were taken out from under him. Larry brought him down to the ground and Spencer knocked his knees into the hardwood hall flooring, swearing up a storm in Italian and kicking hard.

His gun was too far away, in his dresser drawer, and he'd never let Max teach him how to fight because he'd learned to fight with words and intimidation rather than punches. God, he was an idiot, thinking he was safe. If anything, he should have learned from Max. Her past literally just came back, attacking her at a goddamn _party,_ and he didn't even think twice about his own past.

Spencer managed to kick free, landing a blow somewhere that had Larry cursing and spitting and grabbing for Spencer's dress pants with fat fingers.

The scuffle in the kitchen sounded loud, crashes and bangs and shattered glass echoing through the apartment. Someone hit the wall at the turn, and Spencer saw Moe and one of the other guys go down to the ground. Moe's face was smooshed into the ground, blood gushing from his nose. He'd managed to grab Curly's gun and was waving it around.

The crack of the gun got Spencer moving again. He had no idea if the gun had actually hit someone, but he pushed his feet under him, scrambling towards his dresser—

Only for Larry to knock him down again. Spencer smacked his head on the corner of the dresser and everything went spotty. His vision swam and time blurred, and the next thing he knew, all five people were in his room, fighting each other.

Larry was yanked away from him, only to be replaced by dark-haired Curly, who sat on his chest around the same time Spencer realized where he was again.

His senses were knocked out of whack. He hadn't hit the dresser hard, he didn't think, but he could smell coppery blood. He could see people moving and twisting, and then the window near his head slid open and one of his two mystery rescuers disappeared through it.

_No, wait,_ he wanted to call out, but then he saw the second mystery rescuer. His nose was long, so long and _furry_ and _what the fuck_—

Shoes in the hall. Multiple sets, pounding, running quickly and the misshapen rescuer who Spencer was pretty sure only appeared to have a muzzle because he'd hit his head also went through the window.

At the same time, his bedroom door slammed open. Spencer shoved with his arms against Curly, unable to see past his shoulder.

The gun went off again.

Curly punched him straight in the chest and Spencer coughed hard. Curly bent, fingers shoving down near his boot and then a knife appeared.

It flashed to his neck before Spencer could blink. He bucked anyway, throwing Curly to the right—

And then Curly was gone, thrown again across the room and into his dresser by something small but fast, clad in fitted jeans and a heather grey zip-up, an outfit he recognized from this morning.

Spencer tried to roll over onto his stomach, pushing on his arm to turn, but it collapsed under him. He looked down and everything went white.

Mostly with pure shock. Then, it was all pain.

So much pain. He saw the fountain of blood and it was like his brain hadn't realized he'd been cut until that moment.

Spencer felt his mouth moving, heard something in Italian that sounded like _God save me_ if it were in English, and realized it was _him_ saying those things half a second later.

His arm was burning and everything else in the room narrowed down into the sight of his arm. He could see muscles flexing, the white flash of bone through all the blood.

He moved without thinking. His good hand slammed into his bicep, but blood leaked through everything and _ohfuckohGodI'mgoingtodieI'mgoingtofuckingdie._

Something or someone tore at his sleeve. He tried to fight it, but like everything else today, he fell so short. He couldn't focus. He couldn't see his arm anymore. He couldn't see anything, couldn't feel anything outside of the slice across his arm, so deep and so—

"I know it hurts," he heard, and it sounded like Max. "I need you to sit still, Spence."

He tried. He really did. But then something was digging into his arm and pain exploded so hotly through his body that he jerked hard, pulling away. He moved to sit up and roll out of whatever was causing him _so much pain_.

"Stop! Spencer, you'll bleed out faster—"

Something slammed into his shoulders and the room blinked back in. Fang was above him, his long lashes framing nearly black eyes. He wasn't looking at Spencer, he was looking at Max, and Spencer saw words form on Fang's lips. He couldn't tell what they said, and the room spun again, twirling around and around. He was so light-headed, and everything just went completely numb.

Iggy took Fang's place and Spencer just let them do whatever it was they were doing. Everything would be fine if Max was here. She'd always made sure he was okay, whether or not she was okay herself.

Feeling was returning to other parts of his body, but he was strangely distant from it. Iggy said something about his heart rate, and Spencer tried to pay attention again, but it took all of his energy to tune back in.

"It's okay, I can fix it," Max said down to him, and something wormed inside his arm. _Her fingers_, he realized. "I can fix it."

She kept moving, blurring in and out of focus, and his arm pulsed uncomfortably. He was aware of his own heartbeat, thumping heavily in his chest. "It's alright, Spencer, I know it hurts, I'm sorry…"

He wanted to go to sleep so badly. He knew that was from the blood loss and that he shouldn't follow what his head wanted from him, but it was so hard.

Max was talking again, and she leaned hard on his arm. "Hey," she said, her warm, chestnut eyes peering down at him with worry. "Talk to me, Spence, do you know where you are?"

It was getting difficult to think straight, but he recognized the popcorn ceiling, the kidney bean-shaped watermark above the dresser, and he managed to croak out an answer. "Apartment."

"Good," she said. He focused on her eyes, on that little line that formed between them when she was scared. "Don't move. Count for me, yeah? Backwards from fifty."

She'd saved him again, hadn't she? Saved him from his crazy fucking family. But what about those two people that had helped stall his fate?

He needed to tell her about them. They looked similar, both agile but somewhat burly, but that one with the muzzle-ly thing and the wolf-like—

_Wolf-like_. She'd told him about those creatures before, the half-wolf, half-human things that guarded the School and worked to keep experiments under control.

_Erasers. _Like Bane, the horrible piece of shit that had taken her captive, tortured her until she'd nearly gone insane, used her Alter in ways that benefitted both the School and himself, mind and body—

And for some ungodly reason, Erasers had tried to save _him._

"There were…" His breath came out in a pant, and he tried to push the words out. "There—"

It wasn't working_._ His mouth wasn't working but she needed to know before he forgot. _You're not safe either,_ he wanted to say.

But it wouldn't come out.

"Just relax," she said. "The less you move, the better."

He shook his head, and that made the room spin more. His eyes shut without him telling them to, and he struggled to remember what he wanted to say. Something about her safety, something about…

She spoke to someone else in the room, but he focused on the lilt in her voice. It caught at the back of her throat and balled up until she forced her words all the way out.

Comfort. She needed comfort when she sounded like that. He felt her hands on his arm and he closed his fingers around her wrist.

_I'm here_, he tried to convey, since his mouth wasn't working. Something urgent itched at the back of his mind, but she was more important. _I'm with you, I'm not going anywhere._

Why was she here again? He couldn't remember. Everything distorted around the edges, and the only word he caught next was 'hospital'.

"Hate hospitals," he managed to whisper, and Fang responded with some snarky remark about joining some club, but the next time he opened his eyes, he was in his car, staring up at the light-grey cloth interior.

He blinked again and he was on an operating table. A doctor approached him with a plastic mask, emitting some sort of sweet-smelling gas, and he was instructed to count backwards from ten.

Why did everyone want him to count backwards? It was such a stupid idea—

Then he was having crazy visions: flying ninjas careening through his windows, wolves attacking all of his friends, Nudge throwing giant metal spears across football fields with her wacky powers.

Of course, the X-men made an appearance, all because he'd once referred to her as Magneto. Suddenly, he and all of Max's friends were fighting against Sentinels, trying to protect Logan and Kitty Pryde while they fixed the timeline.

He didn't even fully realize when reality bled into his drug-induced visions. One moment he was punching at shadows and the next, nurses were trying to restrain his single, flailing arm to his hospital bed.

Spencer tried to sputter out an apology, but it sounded like a garbled mess and then Max's face appeared in his line of sight.

"Well, you're alive. So there's that," she sighed, sinking into a chair covered in frayed, chartreuse-colored upholstery.

He blinked at her, but his eyes felt sticky and uncoordinated, like one was closing before the other.

"I filled out your paperwork," she continued, waving a clipboard at him. Her clothes were different: bright red scrubs stark against white hospital walls. "Did you know LMP stands for 'last menstrual period'? Because I didn't. The nurse gave me a funny look when I asked. I suppose, as a girl, I'm just expected to _know _what all their little acronyms mean."

Spencer tried to tell her that it was a pretty common acronym, but it all came out in a puff of air instead.

She frowned and glanced around, locating a brown-plastic pitcher of water on a shelf alongside some plastic-wrapped cups. She dropped the clipboard on his bed and scooted over to it, pouring a glass of water for him and handing it over.

It was so gross, tepid and probably from the faucet. He'd gotten way too used to Fuji water straight from his fridge shelves. He used to be able to drink faucet water, but, well, he'd gotten comfortable with his income since Max broke into his life.

He coughed and set the water on the little table over his knees, stretching the IV tube. The tape pulled at the skin of his hand and he looked at it, fascinated by all the lines in his flesh.

"Man, you are _out_ of it," Max said, her tan face appearing just to the left. She tapped his knee. "We need to get you briefed, Spence. The docs will be in soon, and if you don't tell them the right thing, I'll be in a cell faster than you can say 'oops'."

"Oops," he said. The 'p' popped funny on his lips and he giggled. "You can't go to jail; you don't like cages!"

Max rolled her eyes at him. "Wow. Okay, look. Do you remember what happened?"

The weird images of the Three Stooges were the only thing that came to mind. "Larry, Moe, an' Curly attacked me."

She blinked at him, weary eyes popping with confusion. "Uh—"

He flapped his hand at her. "Not th' real ones. Family ones."

Max pursed her lips and did a funny little bob with her head. "You were attacked by the mafia. Were their names…Larry, Moe, and Curly?"

There was skepticism in her voice, but he was kind of tired, so he just shrugged and shut his eyes, sinking down into the pillows.

"Uh-uh. Spence," she flicked his cheek and his eyes rolled. "You can't tell the doctors you were attacked by the mafia. You need to tell them you did this to yourself, okay? You tried to commit suicide by slicing your arm up."

"Sounds messy," he groaned, rubbing a hand down his face. "I'd get blood all over my suit."

Max snorted, and he looked over at her. Everything was still kind of fuzzy, like that he hadn't brushed his teeth in three days. Hairy. Gross.

Little snatches of his attack flashed like a strobe light behind his eyes, and he shied away from them for now. He couldn't put together what was real and what wasn't, and the anxiety of his almost-death crept into the darker places of his mind.

She went on, talking about what would happen next: the seventy-two hour hold, the isolation from her and the outside world. She told him about his arm, and that he wasn't allowed to move it for a while. She said the doctor would explain everything when he was more coherent.

The next couple of hours were just…hazy. He remembered talking to Max about David, vaguely. He kept dozing off, and there came a time when he woke up that Max was gone. That was around the same time the painkillers finally stopped pulling so hard at his head.

His surgeon came in eventually, and Spencer confirmed Max's suicide attempt story. Then, he was finally updated on his arm.

"I'm not sure if you'll ever get full use back," Dr. Drapose said, sitting in the chair Max had occupied earlier. "It's fantastic that you're able to wiggle them." He pointed down at Spencer's tapping fingers with the chewed end of a pen. "But as far as strength and mobility, I won't be sure until the internal stitches heal up."

They'd literally had to fish for a tendon. It was sliced through, one half in his shoulder and the other somewhere around his elbow. Spencer's whole arm throbbed. It didn't hurt. He had enough painkillers in his system still to put down a small dog, but it didn't help the news go down easier.

"Fantastic," Spencer grumbled. "I'm left-handed, too."

The doctor didn't seem to know whether or not he was trying to make some sort of light-hearted comment, and Spencer didn't know, either. He just felt detached. Like his tendons had been.

"Your, uh, your friend," the doctor said, pushing his thin glasses up his nose and scratching at greying brown hair. "She did a remarkable job. She used mint floss though, but I suppose, in a situation like this…"

Spencer had to clamp down on his want to talk about her, and how she'd saved his life. How her quick thinking had probably meant diving into shit she didn't want to go back to, but had anyway. To save him.

He was supposed to be suicidal, and he figured being grateful to Max right to his surgeon's face might be a little suspicious for someone who wanted to be dead.

The doctor cleared his throat. "You'll definitely need physical therapy. For how long, again, I can't say. I'll want to check-up in about two weeks. Until then, I don't want that arm coming out of that sling for any reason other than changing clothes or taking a shower. And even then, try to keep it supported with your other arm."

Spencer just looked down at his brace, playing with a loose thread.

His line of work didn't require him to use his hands that much, so it wasn't like this was _debilitating_.

But…it was still his arm. A part of his body.

_Basta. Don't be a child. _

He wasn't a child anymore. His family had tried to hurt him even worse than just his arm. They'd tried to kill him, and he was struggling to get past how close they'd been.

_You should feel lucky_, he told himself as he thanked Dr. Drapose for his time spent digging through his arm. _You're not dead, after all._

* * *

Spencer was going _mental_. Which was kind of hilarious, given where he was.

But really, this mandatory seventy-two hour hold was pointless.

Not for everyone, obviously. There were people out there with actual mental issues who really could use the resources he was currently wasting.

Spencer sighed into his strawberry Jello cup and tried to lick out the remnants, but his tongue was a squat little thing. He couldn't even roll it, and Max constantly made fun of him for it. _Who can't roll their tongue?_

He sandwiched the Jello cup between his thighs and used his spoon to scoop out the last bits.

He was learning how to get around with one arm only two days into his forced captivity. He'd cheated a few times, using his thumb and his pointer finger on his bum arm to pick at his nails on the good one—biting at his nails was too disgusting of a thought, but the uneven nail was practically torture.

Ruth, the portly nurse, rounded the corner and smiled shyly at him, brushing her hands down her overly-long blue-and-gold plaid skirt. Spencer smiled back, grimacing internally at his decision when he first got here to flirt with the nurse in order to get a phone call out to Max.

Who hadn't answered, infuriatingly.

He'd had the time and the mental capacity to _sort of_ go back to the scene of the crime. Things were still…off. Like the dude with the muzzle.

At first, Spencer tried to play it off as something that hadn't actually happened. But then—who were the two mystery rescuers? Who had left the note in Max's box with the warning?

There were some things that didn't make sense, and he'd kicked himself a thousand times for forgetting to mention the wolf-like creatures he thought he'd seen.

It really didn't help that Max didn't _answer_, either. He prayed it was just because she was busy. And not because—

_You're going to drive yourself absolutely bonkers if you keep thinking like that._

Spencer snorted out loud and looked at his surroundings again. Then he sighed and went back to people-watching, spotting George the Forger scribble frantically on a piece of paper with a broken Crayola crayon. Spencer had learned in group therapy that George the Forger thought, to no one's surprise, that he was an experienced and highly-talented document forger. He'd tried to get Spencer to purchase a passport made out of construction paper and a photo from a magazine of a person that looked vaguely like Spencer.

"Mr. Findley?"

Spencer turned and spotted Dr. Carson, his assigned psychiatrist. He was in the doorway leading back to the private, one-on-one session patient rooms. "Doc."

The doctor smiled warmly, his too-bright white teeth shining in the also-too-bright white lighting of the rec room. "Are you ready for your next session?"

Spencer stood from the green Formica chair and shoved it back in with his slipper-clad foot, pausing on his way to Carson to dump his empty Jello cup and spoon in the trashcan.

"Ready to discharge me yet?" Spencer asked, knowing he'd get the same canned response as the last two times he'd asked.

True to form, the doctor just gave him a condescending look. "You'll be released following the seventy-two hour period in which you were admitted," the doctor intoned, like a wound toy.

Carson was probably the worst doctor he'd ever met, and that was saying a lot. He'd been in more hospitals, around more doctors, than he cared to admit. Many people in his family had ended up in the hospital as a part of mafia retaliation, and then he'd had his own dust-ups before Max came along.

But Carson was the _worst_. It was like he thought Spencer was five fucking years old, or something.

"Follow me," the doctor said, crooking a finger up next to his face with an expression that Spencer supposed was meant to look friendly. Instead, it made him look creepy as hell.

He followed anyway, walking down the now-familiar hall of door after door until they reached Carson's. He counted every blue tile on the way there, coming up at the same number as always—fifteen. Fifteen steps into a room in which he gave the doc nothing but the perfect answers to every question about his mental health.

"So," the doctor said, closing the door and watching Spencer sink into the plush brown-spotted armchair near the window. And by sink, Spencer literally meant sink—the springs in the damn armchair were broken beyond belief and he dropped about six inches closer to the ground than the chair was probably supposed to go. "How are we feeling today?"

That was another thing. The 'we' pronoun. He was starting to hate that word. How are _we_ feeling, how are _we_ doing with medication, how are _we _eating. It was like he didn't want Spencer thinking he was alone in this particular situation, which would otherwise probably be nice, but was instead frustrating to a degree he couldn't even describe. Outside of talking to Spencer for twenty minutes in one-on-one, Carson hardly bothered to speak to him otherwise. Not in the halls when he passed, not in the rec room, and certainly not during meals.

"Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed," Spencer deadpanned. "Like a squirrel."

Carson sat in his (noticeably much nicer and newer) chair and pulled his legal pad from seemingly nowhere. "Oh? Why a squirrel?"

Spencer gritted his teeth and envisioned himself face-palming. "Not literally. I just think 'squirrel' when I think 'bushy-tailed' is all."

"Ah," Dr. Carson said, poising his glaring red pen above his pad of paper. "So the medication is working well? No lethargy, no fogginess?"

"Nope," Spencer said, though he wasn't totally sure the pills wouldn't be doing that to him if he'd actually been ingesting them. He kept sticking the fifty milligrams of Amoxapine under the broken section of wire in his permanent retainer. Later, he poked them out with a flattened straw and palmed them off to Heidi at reception.

She was selling pills to keep her kid in daycare, because apparently working at an office like this paid about as much as folding clothes at Hollister.

"Well that's good," Carson said, then paused to write for about thirty seconds. From the one 'nope' Spencer had uttered.

He stared at half-page of notes, wondering what the hell Carson could _possibly_ be writing. Spencer's glasses—which Max had enough cognizance to snag before loading him into his car—were about three years out of date. He only ever used his glasses to avoid crashing into things from between the bathroom sink and his bed, and paying for another pair when he otherwise exclusively used his contacts seemed dumb.

Now he wished he'd updated them more recently. He couldn't see shit that wasn't ten feet or closer, and the pad of paper was insanely interesting now that Carson had written so much on so little conversation so far.

"And how's the arm?" Carson said, pointing the clicky part of his pen in the general direction of Spencer's brace.

Spencer looked down at the dark-blue cotton sling and wiggled his fingers. Pain shot up his arm and he winced, wishing he'd maybe taken the last Vicodin instead of giving it to Heidi.

"Alright," he shrugged, adjusting the strap where it dug into his shoulder. "Still can't move more than my fingers, and it hurts too much to move my wrist, not to mention any other part of my arm, so…"

Carson was writing again before he'd finished, and this time Spencer just rolled his eyes, crossing an ankle over his knee.

He knew Max had been right. This was probably the best way to work around what had happened outside of finding some back-alley surgeon.

Not that it would have _mattered._ His arm was useless right now either way.

Spencer frowned down at his arm.

Carson continued asking him bullshit questions and acting like he gave a damn before dismissing him with the same instructions as always—rest up, inform someone if thoughts of suicide entered his mind, and try to make friends.

He all but ignored Carson and returned to the static-y television in the rec room, wishing they got the news or something. But they didn't, of course, only pre-approved television shows that would cause the least amount of breakdowns from patients.

_Almost out of here,_ Spencer thought, kicking back in his green Formica chair and watching George again. _Just a day more. Tomorrow night, you'll be free._

* * *

Of course, the time would go by _faster_ if his roommate didn't talk in his sleep and keep Spencer from passing out himself.

"Stop shooting," Robbie muttered, kicking out against his sheets.

Spencer had a hard time really getting mad at Robbie, because he reminded him of Max. Robbie was a veteran from Fallujah, completely functional except for the crippling PTSD and occasional alcoholic binge. He'd contemplated suicide with his service pistol, going so far as to write a note and settle into bed with the gun pressed to his temple.

He hadn't done it, only because he'd seen a kid with his dog, happily playing in a field of dandelions right outside his window. Robbie didn't want to scare the kid with the sound of a gunshot.

Spencer turned on his side and watched Robbie toss and turn, begging his fellow soldiers to cease fire, whimpering while he fought invisible demons. It was nearly four in the morning, and Robbie had been mumbling since two.

Robbie was rather huge. He barely fit in the small twin provided, feet spilling off the end of the bed. Robbie's size was really the only reason Spencer didn't pad over to him and wake him up carefully.

It didn't really matter, because in the next moment, Robbie turned so violently in the bed that he crashed to the floor, waking himself.

"Please!" he shouted, sitting straight up and glancing around, wild-eyed. One of his hands clutched at the thin, fitted sheet on the inch-thick mattress. "I'm…I'm…"

"You're still at Good Samaritan," Spencer mumbled, his mouth half-pressed into his pillow. "Where Jello is currency and shoelaces are forbidden."

Robbie's panicked voice died out and he caught Spencer looking at him. He flushed scarlet. "Sorry," he muttered to Spencer, rubbing his arms and turning to sit against his bed. "Didn't mean to wake you."

Spencer shrugged as well as he could while horizontal and turned onto his back. "Don't apologize."

"I should," Robbie said with a heavy sigh. His gravelly voice was sleep-clogged and miserable. "I usually don't wake other people. I live alone."

He glanced at Robbie out of the corner of his eye and sighed, too.

"You should try writing," he said, shifting the sheet between his toes. The starchy cotton sucked compared to his silk-blend sheets at home.

_Oh, man_, Spencer thought. _Home_.

He hadn't even thought about how much clean up there would be waiting for him. Unless Max had decided to clean things up for him, he had shattered glass, bloodied floors, and a broken phone to deal with.

The state of his kitchen alone—

"Writing?" Robbie questioned, yanking Spencer from his thoughts.

Spencer turned his head back to find Robbie looking at him curiously. He sat up, pooling the sheets around his waist and scratching at his ankle where the elastic of his issued sweatpants tickled his skin.

"Yeah. You know, writing down how you feel? Or writing your experience?"

Robbie scowled. "I've never even _talked_ about what I saw, how could I—"

"That's why you write it down," Spencer interrupted. "You can't talk about it, right? It's hard to go back there without feeling like you're actually there?"

Robbie looked down at the tiled, blue-and-red-checkered floor. "It's…hard. None of my buddies are around. I don't have anyone that understands."

Now _that_ was something Spencer got. Not from Robbie's standpoint, but from Max's. Max had tried.

But he didn't understand a lot of her world, or even how she still function based of the information he _did _have. There were things about Bane that Max said she'd never thought the School would stoop to. There were things that had happened between Bane and her Alter that she never admitted to, but that he'd guessed.

So it made her more comfortable to write things out, which was where her songs came from, sometimes.

"I have a…friend," Spencer started, watching Robbie's kind of gorgeous sea-foam green eyes blink away harrowing images. "She has really bad nightmares, sometimes flashbacks, of the things that were done to her. She can't really talk about them, either. Not without risking what she calls a 'slip'."

Robbie nodded and pulled his knees up to his chest. "I…call them slides," he said stiffly, like admitting it out loud made him weak, somehow.

Spencer yanked his thin blanket from the end of the bed and slid down to the floor to lean against the frame. "She writes down some of the things she can't talk about. Sometimes it comes out in metaphors that only she understands, but it gets them out, you know?"

Robbie didn't say anything, picking at his fingernails instead. Eventually, he nodded. "Could try it, I guess. Handwriting sucks though. Can't keep my hands from shaking these days."

Spencer knew an excuse when he heard one. He rubbed at his eyes and yawned. "Doesn't matter if you can't read it; the point is to just get it out so you aren't bottling it up inside anymore."

Again, Robbie went silent. After a minute or two, Spencer climbed back into bed. He shut his eyes and hoped he'd given Robbie something to use, because Lord knew Spencer seemed to be the only one around that knew how to process his issues in a healthy way.

David drifted across his mind, the producer from CNT he'd been flirting with before all of this. Spencer huffed into his pillow. Okay, so he knew how to process _most _of his issues. At least he was _trying_ to imagine a relationship, so that was better than ignoring the problem completely.

And yeah, alright, he was ignoring his arm problem, too, but there was no point in trying to 'come to terms' with a dead limb if he didn't know how _dead_ it was yet. He'd leave the processing for after his check-up.

Spencer drifted off to sleep, wondering whether or not he was a hypocrite.


	6. Gone (T) 2 of 2

**Part two of Spencer's POV. Takes place the day of his release from the hospital, a few hours before the night/early morning of the Flock's escape. Unbeta'd.**

* * *

**GONE**

**SPENCER**

_Pick up, pick uuuuup, pickuppickpupickup—_

"Your call has been forwarded to an automatic—"

Spencer groaned. Ruth's batting eyes descended on him.

"Something wrong, honey?" she asked, sugarcoated voice and all.

_Merda, why did you flirt with her? You never learn, you cretino._

He smiled sweetly at her anyway and hung up the receptionist's phone. "My friend isn't picking up her cell, that's all. She's supposed to be my ride."

Ruth tutted and shook her head. "Unreliable friends. You need support right now! How can she be a good friend if she isn't here for you now?"

_Because she might have been kidnapped by her worst nightmare_.

"She's a little…flighty," Spencer said instead, laughing to cover his internal fear.

Two times. That was _two times_ she hadn't picked up the phone. And granted, she didn't normally pick up the phone unless she recognized the number, but he'd left a message the first time and then this time, it hadn't even rung.

That probably meant her phone was dead.

_Christo_, he needed a drink.

"I'll just call a cab," he muttered and picked up the phone again.

Twenty minutes and ten bucks later, he found himself leaning his head against the cool metal of the elevator and waiting for it to reach his floor. He didn't have his keys, either, and he didn't really have a plan on how to get into his apartment outside of some forced B&amp;E on the door.

Just for kicks, he tried the doorknob. It was locked, but a simple push on the door opened it on account of the broken doorjamb on the other side.

_So…not repaired then. Which means…yep._

He walked into the chaotic scene of the three-way assault. Glass still littered his kitchen floor, his phone shattered among it.

He wasn't really one to complain about doing some cleaning up here and there. He liked making things neat and tidy. But sometimes, it was nice to come home to an apartment that wasn't trashed to hell.

The evidence kept piling at his feet, but he ignored it, instead electing to think _gee thanks, Max. I clean up your interview slip-ups and celebrity lifestyle, and you can't pay it back by sweeping up some glass?_

It was easier to sit in denial for a little while longer. To not deal. Which he knew only ended in misery. _Always_. He'd never had this problem before, but he couldn't help but think Max was just being exceptionally lazy.

Maybe it was because he couldn't imagine knowing she was out there, somewhere, locked inside her head and out of control.

Spencer shook his head and fingered the strap of his sling. He needed to go to her house. He needed to see that she was really gone.

He gingerly stepped over all the broken pieces of shit in his kitchen and made his way back to his bedroom. His Dean Martin bottle cap mosaic was tilted a little sideways in the hall, and he took the three seconds to straighten up his favorite piece of art, no matter how tacky.

There were some dried blood spots smeared across the hall floor. Someone had stepped in it and slid, he could see. It tracked towards his bedroom door, and he followed it. He froze in the doorway.

Spencer didn't expect the rush of fear that went through him like bad Chinese food. He almost sprinted to the bathroom before realizing that it was his sympathetic nervous system triggering in response to the scene of the crime.

He took a step forward, pushing his door open completely.

There was…a lot of blood. It was all congealed and a rusty red-brown, and he heaved a little, covering his mouth and nose with the back of his hand. He closed his eyes and pushed the sickness down.

_Deep breaths. In and out. Relax._

He never thought he'd have to use the tactics he'd taught Max for himself, but there it was.

Spencer opened his eyes and let the scene filter in.

The space where he'd been lying had a puddle half the size of him. Droplets of blood sprayed across the room and hit the edge of his bedframe from, he guessed, the spurting artery.

He was attacked, but he lived. He was standing here in his apartment, with his arm in a sling, but he was alive.

Spencer took a deep breath and stepped over the dried pool, moving towards his dresser where his spare car key sat. He considered taking his gun, but he was left-handed and he'd probably hit someone in the kidney instead of the chest if he tried to aim with his right-hand. Not only that, but he was jumpy enough that having a live gun on his person, especially an unregistered gun, was probably just an accident waiting to happen.

If Max and her family were really gone, it had happened days ago, and no one would be waiting for him at her house anyway.

He grabbed his car keys and tossed them on the bed, then changed into a rather untraditional t-shirt and jeans because he couldn't imagine trying to mess with dress shirt buttons.

There was a lot of awkward twisting and turning and frustrated grunting to get his clothes off. He thought his shirt was going to give him the most problems, but he ended up hopping on one foot to get the sweatpants off instead of sitting on the edge of his bed like someone _intelligent_ would have.

His foot snagged in the elastic and he went down, landing on his good shoulder right in the dried slick of blood.

It was a very, very good thing that the blood wasn't fresh, because cleaning up Jello chunks and chicken broth alongside wet blood probably wasn't something he could stomach.

Spencer's stomach heaved and rolled and he just let it empty on the floor.

_This is normal_, he told himself. _Just let it out. Also, it's probably time to find a therapist. _

Maybe he should have tried to take the Amoxapine, just to see how it worked.

He turned onto his back and got to his feet, then started the task of cleaning his sick and the blood while he was at it.

While he did so, he grabbed the burner phone from the top drawer in his dresser and powered it on, dialing Max's number. It didn't even ring again, so he dialed Nudge, scrubbing at his floor. The sudsy Pledge bubbles turned a weird orange with the combination of the brown blood and his bright red Jello chunks.

Nudge's phone rang, which gave him some hope, but it eventually went to voicemail. He didn't have Fang's number memorized, and he knew Iggy didn't keep his phone on him most of the time. Instead of wasting more time, Spencer quickly mopped up the floor, struggled into his jeans, and stashed the burner phone.

He ignored the truly mournful state of his kitchen when he stepped back through it to get to the front door. He propped it closed and hoped none of his neighbors would decide to knock on the door.

* * *

Spencer stared at the gate. It was flung completely open, and the mechanical lock had been _melted_ into the rest of the wrought iron door.

It also looked bashed the rest of the way open, twisted bars marred. He'd never seen anything like it in his life.

Spencer packed back into his car and sped down the long driveway, coming to a stop at the front of her house. He threw the car into park and looked up. There were tire marks _everywhere_. Her lawn had definitely taken a hit, deep trenches from heavy-duty off-road tires ripping up sod and mulch. The window next to the front door had been shattered inwards, and the door itself was wide open.

He got out of the car slowly, his heart dropping down his stomach and out his ass. The next through plunked into his head and ricocheted around like a Plinko puck.

What if he found one of them dead inside?

It was a nice seventy-two degrees outside, but he could swear a blizzard blew through the area to accompany the chill that went down his spine.

Spencer stepped through the front door. There wasn't much damage in the front hall at all: just glittering glass scattered across the floor. He stuck his head into the living room, studio, library, and bathroom, but nothing even looked touched.

He figured calling out inside the house was useless, but fuck it.

"Hello?" he yelled, and was unsurprised when no one answered. The further he went on, the sicker he felt. But he had to make sure no one was dead. He had to do some cleanup before he called the cops. Max had mentioned something about her blood being different, and if he didn't get rid of it, the cops would have questions for him that he couldn't answer.

Spencer got all the way to the kitchen before he found what must have been ground zero.

There were two separate dried smears of blood on the floor. It wasn't much, but they were there, tormenting his already thumping heart. Dirty boot prints and broken glass from the kitchen windows scattered across the tile. The door to the garage sat open, and the back door itself was broken in, doorjamb splintered.

And then there were the bright red scrub pants crumpled on the floor.

Max's bright red scrub pants.

Spencer turned to lean heavily on the table—and spotted the wine bottle and two wine glasses.

_Maybe…maybe the pants aren't there because of Bane and Parker_.

He crouched and looked at both of the wine glasses, but there was lip-gloss on the edge of one. Nudge was the only one who wore lip-gloss, because God knew Max wouldn't touch make-up with a ten-foot pole if she didn't have to. Nudge had been drinking with someone, maybe Max before Bane had showed up.

And now Max's pants were…

_Figure it out. You know she gets hot when she drinks. Maybe she did it herself. _

He did a more thorough sweep of the first floor and found a discarded t-shirt in the living room. It was generic dark heather grey, and Spencer paused with it hanging from his fingers.

Yeah, someone had definitely been shedding clothes. _Two people_, because though Max owned a lot of t-shirts, she didn't own oversized ones. Not anymore, at least.

Spencer clenched his jaw hard. If Bane had come into _her house_ and desecrated her safe space—

He found her scrub shirt on the front staircase next.

_Brutto figlio di puttana bastardo! __Miserabili pezzi di merda__!_

He continued cursing the seven hells out of Bane, trudging up the stairs with the clothes in his hands. He went straight back to Max's room—and found exactly what he'd been expecting in her bedroom: rumbled sheets, her discarded bra and underwear…

And a single, black downy feather in her bed.

Spencer picked it up and spun the short shaft in his fingers. He knew what Max's wings looked like. He still had the long-ass secondary feather from the first day they'd met, the one that had landed on his shoe and tipped him off to the fact that Max was not just some ordinary girl.

This…well he was assuming this was Fang's from the quick glances of his wings, and now Spencer was just confused.

Had Fang and Max…?

Okay, he knew he'd said he was going to cockblock them, but he hadn't actually meant 'cock' _literally_. Make-out-block maybe. But unless Max had gone from barely knowing what to do two days ago to suddenly wanting to jump into bed with Fang, he still feared that Bane was the culprit of the shed clothes. Perhaps Fang's feather just…happened to be in here from one of the nights he'd helped her sleep.

It hit him at that moment, standing in her bedroom, holding her scrubs in his hand and Fang's feather in the other. He'd been distracted by the clothing, but now the silence of the empty house screamed at him. He had much bigger problems than who had been having sex in Max's house a few days ago.

She was gone. Her whole family was gone. Max was Parker again, and that meant California was about to have some old, very painful wounds ripped right open.

Not to mention what this would do to _Max_.

If he ever even saw her again. If she ever _was_ Max again.

_Oh, fuck._

* * *

**FUN FACT: Originally, Spencer's family was going to attempt drowning him, to make it look like a suicide, rather than an attack. Max and Fang were going to find him facedown in the tub and resuscitate him. **

**That idea was scrapped in favor of allowing Max to use her skills as Parker and realize that what she knows isn't only used to hurt people. **


	7. Coup de Grâce (T)

**Bane's final scene. It's a little messy, but lost chapters don't tend to get sent to my beta.**

**COUP DE GR****Â****CE**

**BANE**

He inhaled sharply and pain seized his limbs.

Bane jack-knifed up, his head swimming with images of fire and Max. His senses were shot, his body was sore, and suddenly, he saw the stairs above him crumble away, falling towards him—

He didn't have enough time, but he rolled as fast as he could out of the way of most of the debris, straight into a timber on fire.

Nothing hit him. There wasn't even a crash and Bane scrambled up and away, batting at his shirt.

_Then_ the staircase fell—a full four seconds after he'd seen it happen. Or rather, Seen.

Bane smacked at his shoulder, killing the smoky embers from charring his shirt further. He growled at himself. _Get it under control._

He ducked into the armory, pain racing through his bad leg as he tried to move quickly. The fire was spreading rapidly, scorching the walls all around him. Near the back of the armory, the entire wall was blown out—probably because that was were the explosives were kept.

Which was fortunate, because the exit out to the garage was blocked completely. A hole blown in the ceiling had rained debris several feet deep by the door. An Eraser's furry leg stuck out from beneath the fiberboard tiles and heavy rebar.

Bane picked his way towards the back wall, shifting into and out of his Sight to make sure no explosions awaited him. None did, and he traipsed out of the burning building he called home.

Aside from the roaring fire, it was surprisingly quiet in the desert. Deathly quiet. The silence was uncomfortable, but Bane's nose cleared a little of smoke and he smelled why.

Burnt fur and smoked bodies. It wasn't an easy smell to forget. Bane turned towards the building, noticing that the several other exits down the length of the building were still shut tight.

Blocked from the inside, probably. Never opened.

His friends and comrades were dead inside the building. Perhaps a few had made it out, but with everyone so distracted by his searches, tired from being woken in the middle of the night, and spread out with a serious lack of direction once the explosions started—

It had broken down into chaos in seconds, heightened by door after door the Erasers found blocked.

He didn't care. All that mattered was Max.

_Get a car. Maybe the garage is intact. _

Bane turned away from the giant hole in the wall and skirted around the building to the garage.

* * *

By some miracle, he managed to catch up to the van. He had no idea if they were actually planning on heading back to the house in Los Angeles, but it was the only place he knew of to check.

His mind had raced in the meantime. What did they think they were going to do with her? He'd killed their Max, _finally, _and unless they thought there was a way to recover her, she was probably a nightmare and a half inside the van. Subject Seventeen's multiple Alters had never come back, and he knew that, but perhaps those in the van didn't know that.

But ten minutes from the original Max's house, he'd spotted the van. It didn't have the tires to take the shortcuts he'd taken—notably the one just outside the School that always managed to shave off a good half hour—and the top speed of his Liberty eclipsed the van's. He recognized the fake license plate among the other sparse cars on the highway at four in the morning, and his blood sang. She was in there. She was that close.

Bane grinned at the thought of her spouting off insults and probably tearing them down the way she'd done to Fang a few days ago. The grin was short-lived, however. They could just kill her. If none of her Flock could stomach it, Nightshade would do it.

His gut twisted hard. He'd seen her dead before. Dozens of times, he'd watched the light die in her eyes as a bullet or knife found home in her body.

Of course, none of those images had ever come to fruition. His Sight had kept her safe, always more focused on her than anything else in the room because she was the most unpredictable.

He wasn't around to protect her right now. He could see the van, and he couldn't help but want to get up close enough to see inside the darkly tinted windows, just to reassure himself that she was still _alive_.

If she was dead…

She couldn't be. He couldn't see _or_ See her dead eyes again, the lively and dangerous flicker of life just…gone.

It hurt to think about it, and the pain was different. It wasn't hot and angry, like the thoughts of her being taken from him. It was instead dark and depressing, a tear in his chest that he couldn't make go away.

_Stop it_, he commanded himself. _They wouldn't have killed her on the road. She's probably just restrained._

It was incredibly difficult to not tailgate them and send fear straight into the hearts of each one of them. But there were five of them, all mostly in good health, versus him and Max—both of whom were injured and exhausted.

He had his gun, but he needed the drop on them. So he pulled classic tailing maneuvers, hoping to God that Nightshade wasn't paying attention. He knew tailing techniques, and the gig would be up if he was the one behind the wheel.

It was much harder to keep himself hidden once the van turned on the smaller roads towards the original Max's house. So instead, he waited ten minutes, allowing them a small amount of time before he tore down their illusion of safety yet again.

He didn't expect the Hyundai at the front of the house, and he grumbled at the familiar car. Spencer Findley's, he remembered. Which meant six against two. But a fleshy human could hardly make a difference.

Bane bypassed the front of the house for the back, towards the door he'd broken down himself just days ago. No one came out to defend against him, and Bane pulled his Colt before pushing the back door open.

Findley was there, his back to the door and a coffee mug in his hand. It was ridiculously easy to sneak up on him, and Bane had an arm around the shorter man's neck before he could even get out a word.

"So you're the one the mafia wants so bad, huh?" he muttered into Findley's ear. The man struggled, reaching back with the mug and nearly clocking Bane in the head. It flew from his fingers and smashed to the ground behind the two of them. Bane jammed his gun into Findley's temple.

The man said something in Italian, hoarse and strained but still loud enough for Bane to knee him in the back of his leg and get him moving. "You're no good to me dead, so I suggest you stop struggling."

Surprisingly, that only made Findley struggle more. Bane tightened his grip on him as he tried to choke out some words. "Fuckin' piece of _shit_—you're _him, _you're—"

"Glad to know I'm notorious," Bane muttered dryly before dragging Findley through the hall and towards the doorway.

The first thing he noticed, of course, was Max. Utter exhaustion clouded her features, and Fang stood over her, watching her closely.

But she was alive, unhurt, just tired—

"You should really learn how to spot a tail," he couldn't help but say to Dylan, who was holding the van's keys in his hand. He had no idea how Dylan functioned in a stand-off scenario, and he used the insult to gauge what he could. Dylan's eyes narrowed, but he didn't otherwise move.

Fury rolled under his skin. These people thought they could get away with taking his mate away. He saw her stand out of the corner of his eye and hope surged through him. If she could move well enough on her own, he could unleash bullets on this pathetic group of individuals and not worry about hitting her accidentally.

He just had to buy her a little time. "I knew it was dangerous," he said, taking note of every person positioned in the room. They were too spread out for his liking, and he noticed Nightshade was not among them. Good. Maybe he'd died inside the School. "I told him bringing in the entire Flock of avian experiments was a bad idea. Did Gunther-Hagen believe me? No. And look what it's done."

Crippled the building, of course. Killed the majority of the Erasers. Brought the School to its knees. But he couldn't really care less about any of that. All he wanted was to take Max far away from it all.

Gunther-Hagen could go on believing the two of them had died, for all he cared. Speaking of which—

"You probably should have taken a little extra time to kill me," he told Nudge, watching her edge backwards and allowing the rush of satisfaction to fill his veins when she did so.

He'd kill all of them. He glanced at Max—but she was glaring at him, feet planted and jaw set.

She couldn't be _that_ pissed at him that she'd fuck around now, right?

But she was standing differently. And that anger wasn't the temporary, fixable kind that he knew he'd just have to wait out.

This was eternal and fiery and—

"Not the one you were expecting?" she said, and Bane's entire body went rigid. He knew Findley could feel it, but he couldn't stop the reaction.

It wasn't her. It wasn't his Max. It was the original, the one he thought he'd killed, and Bane's confidence evaporated like a drop of water on a hot sidewalk.

"That's…impossible," he said, and his voice sounded far away. "I _killed you."_

"Clearly, you didn't," she snapped back, ever the unbreakable woman and pain in his ass.

That's when Fang started to move forward, and Bane realized he'd gone from the very equal scenario of the two of them versus the rest of the Flock to just him.

Alone. With his partner…where?

Bane whipped the gun towards Fang, too close to Max for comfort and definitely in danger of being hit by his bullet—but he didn't have a choice. _Think!_

"No one moves," Bane said, looking around at how spread out and coiled every person in the room had become. _Take control. Put them in lower positions, give yourself time to See what happens. _"Everyone sit. Except you," he said, narrowing his eyes at the original Max before moving his gun back to Findley's head while everyone slowly obeyed his orders.

_Take her back_.

"_Subtrahatis et obedite,_" he hissed through gritted teeth, praying his Max was paying attention and had the sense to leap straight away from everyone as soon as possible.

Max stumbled backwards, ducking her head and bunching up defensively, the way she always did before his version ripped her way back to the forefront—

But her body didn't relax. She didn't blink away filmy eyes, but rather froze, one hand out for balance, one of Fang's hands snapping to her waist before she could trip over him.

And his Max didn't appear.

Terror he'd never known punched him in the chest. It was hard to breathe suddenly, and he tried to figure out what was going on. Had she hit her head again? Worse than before? Maybe his words couldn't reach her if she was concussed even further.

"What did you do?" Bane growled, and he remembered his leverage in his hands. He didn't mean to press the gun into Findley's head hard enough to hurt, but he couldn't help it as rage sunk into his bones. "Tell me what you did, or his brain will decorate your ceiling."

She seemed to be searching for something to say, eyes all over the place, looking for an out. He considered just pulling the trigger to prove his point right then and there—but she'd hold the information out of pure spite then. He knew her too well, he knew all of her reactions almost better than his own.

He slipped into his Sight, pulling forward the future just for a moment, just to See if she'd move to attack him right then and there.

His vision turned watery, wavering, smoky visages jumping ahead in time. In the split second it took him to check, he Saw the next four, in which Max did nothing but shift and open her mouth: "If you kill him, so help me God Bane, I will fight you to the _death_."

Bane blinked and watched the same thing happen again, but he cut her off before she could finish her sentence.

"You'll what, fight me?" he said, stealing her words. "You've _never_ been able to fight me. You_ always lose_," he reminded her, and again his body betrayed him with all of the wrath coursing through him. His canines morphed, bright and shining and, he knew, not at all intimidating to her. Violence and anger were her specialty—and she thrived on being able to spit words back at him.

So he reminded her of the psychological warfare that had worked so well in the past. Of what had broken her down to almost _nothing_ three and a half years ago. "Helps that you're so terrified of what I can do to you."

"You can't do anything to me. Not anymore," she spat back, to absolutely no one's surprise. "Parker is gone. She's wiped. You can't do shit to me now. You can't turn me. You can never turn me again."

He was starting to hate that codename, no matter how intriguing and hilarious it had been in the first place. She was still _Max_, that was still her goddamned name—

_Wiped_.

He latched onto the word, and the terror in his chest grew tenfold, somehow.

_Lying, _he thought. Nudge had had the failsafe before hand—

_Give her five minutes with a piece of tech and she'll figure out how it ticks. _That's what his Max had said, sitting cross-legged on their bed.

"You blocked her somehow. You're lying," he said, and his heart clenched hard when she didn't so much as give off a _single_ tell.

"You know I'm not," Max said, hard eyes immobile and fixed on him. "You know everything about me. You know what size shoe I wear. You know that I'd rather eat dirt than drink milk. You know my tells, and you know, right now, that I'm _not lying."_

No.

_No._

Because if Nudge had manipulated the failsafe, and he'd pressed the button, that meant—

"She trusted you. She put her life in your hands, and you didn't take two seconds to realize that technophile over there messed with the failsafe and reversed its effects," she said, all authority, taking control of the room while he lapsed with horrified thoughts. "You were too afraid of my Flock sticking around inside the building to rescue me that you didn't _think_."

The literal last thing he'd seen before the pain of the failsafe brought him to his knees were those wide, rich chocolate brown eyes, entirely trusting. She'd quietly asked him to grant her the freedom she craved—

And he'd instead doomed her to an eternal prison of her greatest fear: feeling nothing ever again.

The world narrowed down to a point. "I…killed her?" he breathed, and a sharp pain pierced his chest with vicious insistence. He'd never felt such agony. Even the failsafe's horrible tone paled in comparison. He couldn't feel his legs, his lungs filled and deflated but the oxygen didn't feel like enough.

Dead. She was dead.

"Kind of ironic, don't you think?" Nudge piped up, and he almost didn't even hear her. "Worst thing that could happen, right? _Pis-aller_, you piece of shit."

He'd never hated himself more.

"You tried to take everything from me," Max said, and now just seeing her standing there, breathing and alive when his Max was _gone_ rubbed him raw. "You tried to take my mind, my free will, my body, the last few years of my life. Everything that I was, you stripped from me and tried to reconstruct into some obedient little soldier. I'm taking it _back_."

She already had it. There wasn't a thing he could do—even shooting her family one-by-one and stealing her away to return to Gunther-Hagen wouldn't fix this. The Cleaner was destroyed, the files and notes that made the push of her Alter successful lost to the explosions…

And if she were to be Altered again, it would be a brand new one. A new version, with none of the memories he shared with _his_ Alter. She'd adapt everything he'd taught his Max from the original now that she too was trained, but…

She wouldn't be the same. He'd have memories she wouldn't, and Gunther-Hagen most likely wouldn't bother imprinting her to him, not when he knew now how to make them more successful. He'd want them to remain focused on the job, rather than each other.

Her family had done that. Her family had taken away half of himself, and though he'd pulled the trigger, they'd loaded the gun.

Bane's finger tightened on the trigger of his Colt. If he couldn't have her, no one could. She thought she could take back her life—

"Not if I take it completely," he said, leveling the gun at her.

He'd never thought he would ever aim at her with the intent to kill, but she was no longer his partner. She was no longer his Max. He might have failed to kill her once, but he sure as hell wouldn't fail again.

Before he could pull the trigger, a loud shout to his left snapped his focus. Gunther-Hagen's assistant was launching himself at him and Bane whipped his gun towards him, finger twitching—

Something impacted his side, and he looked down to see a familiar knife lodged between his ribs. The pain didn't hit immediately. These knives had been tossed at him numerous times, and it wasn't like this was the first time one of them had drawn blood but—

Not like this. Not buried two inches into his chest.

Suddenly, he was on the floor, tangled with Findley's legs and Dylan's fists. Findley managed to roll away and disappeared in a blink while Bane shoved away from Dylan, trying to create some open space.

Things had swung out of control quickly, so quickly. He hadn't meant for this to happen, for his temper to result in the possibility of losing everything.

_Take control. Put her out of your mind. You can deal with this later; right now you need to get out. Alive._

Bane got to his feet, his blood rushing in his ears. His leg throbbed and he ignored it. It took him a moment to realize his Colt had skittered out of his hand, but with Dylan right in front of him, he couldn't look for it.

They were all starting to move in on him, her especially, and Bane slipped into his Sight to figure out who would attack first.

The future twitched and spun, and a sharp pain speared between his temples. He Saw Dylan take a step forward, the translucent vision bleeding with another in which, instead of Dylan moving to block Max, she would get around him and fling a knife. He could See it would hit his lung.

Two futures. Two possibilities. Bane froze, confused. That had never happened before. He'd never seen more than one future. As he continued to watch, both wiped away and formed another, in which Fang surged forward and knocked him to the floor, black wings wide and threatening. Dylan purposely drew out of the way in this vision.

What the _fuck—_

He didn't have time for his Gift to fuck up. Bane took a step forward, aiming to attack Dylan first—and the vision changed again, Seeing Dylan throw an arm out, acting defensively.

Dylan. The common denominator was _Dylan._

The future kept changing because of him.

Dylan threw out an arm to block Max, apparently choosing that path. "Can't See my next move? Hard to make a decision when I can See what you'd do to defend against it," Dylan snarled, moving Max behind him with a gentle palm on her stomach. His pupils blew wide—and realization socked Bane in the stomach harder than Max's knife.

Dylan had Sight, but that wasn't the most shocking thing.

He had an imprint. He was imprinted on _Max_.

Dylan just shoved it back like it was nothing, returning to normal and not at all distracted in the way that his Max had been.

_Stop thinking about her!_

_But he's imprinted, just like she was. _

_So what! Use it to your advantage! Push it away, be the soldier you were trained to be!_

"You have Sight," he snarled out, replacing the pain and loss with anger. "But that's not all you have. I saw your pupils when you touched her. I wondered what kind of stake you had in this to throw everything down the drain. I recognize an imprint when I see one. Interesting though, that you can push it away so easily when she can't."

_Couldn't_, he brain corrected, and his lungs shrank even further.

He hadn't pulled completely out of his Sight yet, and it hovered between reality and the future, switching constantly. His head swam.

One future became more clear—Max throwing a knife with deadly accuracy. Accuracy that would send that knife into his eye, if the shortened vision was any indication.

Bane coiled, moving to crouch and dart out of the way—

Dylan pushed her hand away with a flick of his wing, and his pupils flared and contracted again. "You won't hit him."

_Distract him. Throw off his Sight. Piss him off._

"And you can't have her," Bane said, ignoring the pain beating behind his eyes like banging on drums. His Sight was going to kill him if he put up with this much longer. More futures filtered in—Dylan getting so angry that he sped forward, his fist outstretched. Max jumping up and flaring out her wide wingspan in the hall to clear Dylan, a knife in each hand. "You know she's slept with Fang already, right?"

"Wait, _what?_" Nudge said, and the future with Dylan surging forward faded and died—tripped up, frozen instead.

"And then there's the fact that I've taken that body, too," he tossed out, aiming to send Max spiraling with flushing cheeks and ducked eyes.

Instead, he Saw Fang knocking him to the ground, hands around his throat, and he took a step back in surprise with how fast the dark man would advance on him.

Bane took another step back immediately, unsure of which future would come true. Fang growled, animalistic and unbelievably protective, fire in his eyes.

The pain was too much, and Bane was forced to drop his Sight.

"You had no _right—_" Max said, her voice hard, like it always was when she shouted at him for his and her Alter's relationship.

"Think what you want. But we both know who jumped who first. I didn't start it," he said, stepping back towards the front door. He wasn't going to win here, not now. He'd have to go find Gunther-Hagen, empty-handed and a complete failure. But at least it was better than dead. He just needed a weapon to help.

And he had one, he remembered. His entire chest cramped uncomfortably, and breathing was difficult because of the knife. He pulled it free and Max struck back. "Well it's _over_. She's _dead_ because of you."

He stumbled, and he realized the cramping hadn't just been from the knife.

Before he could do anything with it, the door behind him flew open and banged into the drywall. "You're not going anywhere," he heard, followed by the familiar sound of a gun firing.

The impact jarred him forward, and pain blossomed throughout his entire torso. Every thought flew from his mind and he went on autopilot.

Bane spun and flung the knife at Findley. The turn sent shocks of pain through his side, and his grip was off. He didn't see if he'd hit the human or not before his face met the wall.

Familiar hands were on his shoulders, and his immediate reaction was to push back. _She's not the one you know_. _Kill her. Avenge yours._

Bane whirled, ignoring his side, meeting Max's blistering eyes with his own hard ones. He smashed his hand into her hip, the one he'd worked on bruising spectacularly. Satisfaction at her pained response lit his fight and he wrapped a hand around her throat.

Could he really squeeze the life out of her like this? Could his hands really trap her easily-bruised skin and purple it until she stopped breathing?

He'd never been in a position in which he could end her life so physically.

Her head hit the wall and he forced himself not to see her as anything other than another enemy he had to eliminate. Those brown eyes were not the ones he sought after. Her tumbling hair brushing the backs of his knuckles was not anything more than a point of weakness that he could use against her.

He hated that he couldn't seem to tell the difference anyway. He'd always been able to see her as his Max and the other Max, but that had been during non-lethal interactions.

Now…now he was killing her. He couldn't see past the woman that he was—

Something snapped hard against the side of his head, and he jumped into his Sight without thinking. He saw the kick coming from the corner of his eye and dodged Fang's attack, whipping out his leg first. Fang was knocked to the floor.

For the first time since basic training, Bane's nose began to bleed.

He was going to lose this fight if he kept up this way. With Dylan gone, he Saw only one future, but it was agonizing to keep it up. He Saw Max swing a knife at him and prepared himself for the attack anyway.

"You're going to fry yourself," Max snarled two seconds later. She slashed out with her knife, but he was ready. He circled her injured wrist and squeezed without checking to See what that would do.

And that was his mistake.

Max used her extra appendages to shove herself forward, trying to break away from him by any means necessary. He tripped over something and his bad leg throbbed. It was pulled out from under him. He started to go down.

Bane didn't even feel the knife slide into his chest easily, like he were made of hot butter. He heard the squelch, he saw it happen, but he didn't feel it. Max went rigid on top of him, and the two of them just…looked at the knife.

Her weight left him quickly, but he couldn't concentrate on anything else. He'd trained his Max extensively on the vulnerable parts of a human body. She had a much better understanding than he did after she'd picked up what he knew and learned from there, but he knew enough. And the knife was going to be a permanent addition to his body for however long he had left.

She'd gotten to him first.

"Never thought you'd actually kill me," Bane said, barely moving. The knife was acting like a plug. The pain started to trickle in then, spiking and sharp like…

Well, like a knife to the chest.

"Couple millimeters deeper and it pierces your heart," she said, just barely loud enough to be heard. Or maybe his heart was just pumping too loudly in his ears and it was drowning everything out.

"Take it out, and I'll bleed to death," he said, and tried to breathe. It was difficult, so difficult, and it didn't feel worth the pain or the effort. Slick warmth pulsed from his side, and Bane moved his hand to cup his bullet wound. Like it would make a difference.

Bane thought he could take her away, and then it would just be the two of them. No School, no missions, no danger.

But he'd fucked that up horribly. He should have just taken her when she was with Findley in his apartment, when he'd confronted the Italians in the sedan. He had the ability to see in the _goddamned future_ and look how helpful it had been.

He'd rushed here without thinking. He'd left his post, his job, and his responsibilities to chase after her.

"Should have known she'd be the death of me," he said out loud. He didn't mean to, but it didn't really matter now. He waited for the fabled 'life flashing before his eyes' but all he could see was the knife, shining silver blade nearly ensconced in his chest. "Caring about her…it made me weak."

He'd given up everything.

"Caring about someone doesn't make you _weak_, Bane," Max said, and he recognized that she was on her knees next to him. Why? Why was she still talking to him, instead of doing what she probably wanted to do for years and years?

"Look at what caring did for me," she said, and with great effort, he turned his head to watch her. Her family was picking themselves up, all in relatively good shape. All alive.

Unlike every one of his comrades. Unlike Cassava, and maybe Aconite. He hadn't given them a second thought.

"We won," she continued. "Nudge could have left the School after she and Fang broke out. But she didn't. She stayed and helped because she cared. Same with Fang and Iggy. They could have left, too. But people work better together. Caring doesn't make you weak; it makes you stronger. It gives you something to fight for."

"But I fought for her, and I lost," he said, and genuine confusion swirled in with the mix of emotions that he was not used to feeling. He'd kept his promises to her, he'd come after her when he thought she was still in there, still alive.

He'd done so alone. He didn't have a family, or a team that would go to the ends of the earth to fight alongside him. He hadn't cared enough about Nightshade, who'd swapped sides when he found something better. He hadn't cared about Pennyroyal, and what that had done to Nightshade's psyche.

He'd only cared about himself, and her.

Bane knew he was dying, and he knew it was only a matter of time before Max finally comprehended that and took everything she had out on him. He looked up at her, and his mind was too pain-filled to filter properly again. All he saw was the eyes he'd studied hundreds of times, set into the face that had destroyed him.

"I loved her," he realized, because that was what it had to be, right? He'd sacrificed everything, just like she'd asked. She'd made it clear that she wanted to be with him.

And he paid that back by…

"I loved her, and I killed her," he said finally.

But Max shook her head. "You didn't love her. You loved the _idea_ of her. You loved the idea of being able to control and manipulate someone. She didn't have a choice. Her imprint was forced on her, as was her job at the School. She was never free to choose any of it. That isn't love, Bane."

It stung. It hurt so much, because he realized one of his first thoughts upon taking this Max back to Gunther-Hagen to be Altered again was the fact that she'd only just be his partner. No imprint, already trained, and simply someone he'd have to fight next to.

Yes, he'd still have command over her, if Gunther-Hagen made her that way. But half of her allure was the way the imprint made her react to him. She was stuck on him, and this Max wasn't wrong. He did like the fact that her Alter had been _his_, assigned to him.

Assigned. Not matched freely, not chosen. Assigned. Given no other option.

His Max might have grown into tolerating him, but he remembered the early days. The lack of trust. The anger and nightmares she had because of what he'd done to the original. She'd agreed to become Parker, and maybe that was because she knew she'd just be discarded if she said no.

At the very, very least, he took comfort in the fact that she probably hadn't known she was being killed. She'd died thinking she'd be back.

Bane pursed his lips and turned his eyes towards the ceiling. He heard Fang say something to Max, but he couldn't focus on anything outside of what he'd become. From the Alpha at three, to the keeper of Maximum Ride at five, he was nothing but a catalyst between two individuals stuck inside the same body, like she said now, and like she'd said in her white room. Stuck with him.

And now, he was dying at eight. Dying at the hands of the person he'd spent a good chunk of his life tormenting and chasing.

Fingers gripped his chin gently, twisting his face to look into Max's eyes. He wondered how long she'd keep him alive for, and how much pain she'd inflict upon him before finally killing him. She could suspend him between this threshold of life and death for a while. Fear spiked incredibly, and his whole body went cold.

He'd never been tortured, and she could be so ruthless with him.

"I spent all this time building you up in my head as this invincible monster," she whispered quietly, and that was somehow worse than yelling. "But the truth is, you're just a guy. Just a single, fucked up guy. And I let you terrify me for way too long. I'm done letting you control me."

_I was only doing my job_, he wanted to say, but he knew that was weak, even if true. He'd hurt her. He'd wanted to hurt her.

The prospect of her hurting him was unthinkable. It was never something he thought he'd have to deal with.

But when her shaking fingers wrapped around the knife, he only had milliseconds to realize that she wasn't going to do the things to him that he'd done to her. She wasn't going to let Fang take out his rage, or any of her friends kick him while he was down.

She was just going to end it. A coup de grâce, even after everything. He'd never been able to break her, and even now, she wasn't going to turn into what her Alter had been, just to get even.

He didn't feel the knife slide into his heart. He couldn't feel much of anything outside of the soul-crushing misery for what he'd lost, and the woman he'd killed.

Her eyes were on him, and he took in the russet brown with flecks of gold that he'd seen filled with horror and terror, and also bursting with glee and excitement.

Now, all he saw was resolution and the reflection of his own dying, dulling eyes. He watched her breath freeze in her chest and felt his own hitch there, too. His eyes were closing on their own, and he tried to keep them open, tried to stay alive, but he couldn't. He was no longer in control, and he wondered how much of his life had really been in his hands at all.

But the thought was fleeting, and death towed Bane under dark waves, where he'd spend eternity feeling nothing ever again.

* * *

coup de grâce - (French, 'blow of mercy') a killing blow to mercifully end the life of a suffering individual.


	8. What Happens in Vegas (M)

**Been a while since we had an M-rated chapter. The original chapter 50 was more graphic, but it was reduced to the more 'fade-to-black' type business because, hey. I've got Lost Chapters for smut! Granted, this is just grinding-in-underwear smut, but...whatever. **

**So yeah. Here's Vegas.**

* * *

**WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS**

**MAX**

_I didn't stand a chance. I got sucked right into that shameless expression and his almost-black eyes. "Please kiss me," I said again, completely taken in by him. His voice was remarkably effective at keeping me grounded and his mouth crashed to mine. I nipped at his lips until they opened to me and then he was all mine. _

I already knew Fang was handsy, but he reminded me all over again, trailing the fingers of one hand over my hip and into the dip of my waist. He cupped my side and slid up under my shirt to settle at my ribs. The room was warm, filled with the excited smacks of our mouths, but goosebumps prickled over my stomach anyway, spreading up to my chest, pulling my skin tight.

I wrapped a leg around him and he abandoned my lips to nose my head to the side. He attached his mouth to my neck, zeroing in on the space just below my ear.

"You already know that spot," I said, melting into the mattress anyway and pressing my fingers into his shoulders, his corded build familiar and flexing as he gripped me tighter.

"Consider it a warm-up," Fang mumbled, his hand working my shirt up my torso, scrunching it up my sides.

"I'm plenty warmed-up, believe me," I said truthfully, wiggling under him and snickering quietly when he made a soft noise into my neck. "Get my shirt off and find new spots."

He hesitated for a moment until I started trying to get it off myself. Then he was helping me wrestle out of it, dropping it next to my head and bending his head to steal my breath from my lungs. He kissed me hard before delving down to sample the skin of my chin, down my jaw, all the way to my collarbones. I pushed my fingers into his hair and grinned into the air. I happened to catch the time on the clock and I snorted.

"Ticklish?" Fang mumbled into the hollow space of my throat, and I shook my head.

"It's the middle of the night," I told him. I'd known it was early, but not _that_ early. "I didn't realize—"

Fang moved south to press his lips to the swell of my breast and heat flashed down my spine to pool in my stomach. I cut my sentence off with a small groan that caught in the back of my throat.

"Don't start that," he groaned, not at all helping the situation by slipping a hot hand up to join his mouth. "Nightshade and Iggy are right outside our door. Ig heard us last time from down the hall."

I was unsurprised and silently cursed Iggy's super hearing. "I swear I can't help it," I breathed while he mapped out little paths all over me. "You didn't seem to mind, anyway."

"I definitely didn't." His eager, wet lips brushed my skin with every word. "You kept breathing my name, making all of these _noises_." His voice went very low, deeper, and it rumbled straight through my chest. He pulled my skin between his teeth gently and I turned into a puddle of sighing goo.

It seemed ridiculous that I felt so alive when everything was above the waist. I mean, Christ, we'd _slept_ _together_ before, and I knew that wasn't how this night was going to end, so why did his hands feel like they were doing so much more?

All I could think about was how warm his body was and how I could feel every line of him. His hand over my breast squeezed lightly, very lightly, and I pushed up into him to feel more of his palm, more of him.

I pulled back from his mouth and kissed greedily over his scruffy cheek. His hand kept exploring just barely, fingers circling pebbled skin so lightly that I almost couldn't feel it.

"You don't have to be that careful with them, Fang," I told him, squirming into his hand further. "I mean, don't treat 'em like a knob on a radio, but—"

He breathed a laugh into my ear. "A _what_?"

"You know," I said, making a twisting motion with my hand. "You'll hear me shriek, but not in a good way."

He shook his head, a grin on his face, then ducked his head to place a hot, sucking kiss to my sternum. He pulled his hand from mine and moved both to wrap around my sides, brushing his thumbs over the skin under my breasts.

He kissed the inside of one, nosing down under to join his thumb and sweeping his lips there, too. I dropped my head to the pillow under me and wrapped my hand around his bicep, shifting restlessly under him.

He was still insanely gentle, but he was deliberate, kissing up the side of my chest, following his lips with massaging fingers until he'd touched everything but my peaked nipple.

Instead of giving it attention, he moved to repeat the same motions to my other breast and I shut my eyes, feeling an ache in my ignored skin.

"What are you doing to me?" I breathed, gripping the hair at the nape of his neck and sinking into the extraordinary press of his mouth.

"Figuring you out," he whispered when he returned to my sternum. His hands moved down to grasp my hips and then the wet heat of his mouth enveloped my neglected skin. The sensation was ridiculously fulfilling, shooting straight down my stomach to curl into _other_ areas and my hips twitched against his.

He pulled a moan from me with his circling tongue, and the noise seemed to spur him on. His fingers tightened on me before his hands slid around my back, picking me up from the mattress. He drew us up and settled me on his lap.

My heart was beating so fast and I already had one leg around him, but I wrapped the other and locked my ankles together. It was impossible to ignore the friend in his boxers and I had a moment of complete giddiness. _I_ made him feel like that. He was responding to _me_, he wanted _me_.

The actions of his mouth had already jumpstarted my arousal, and my own movement didn't help keep it down. Fang groaned against my chest, moving from one breast to the other, and his teeth grazed me, scraping lightly, then harder—too hard—when I rocked against him again.

I hissed and flinched. "Too hard," I said, and at the same time he growled out my name in warning.

"Sorry," he said, kissing the pinched skin before looking up at me. "You just surprised—" He shook his head and pulled me flush to him. "Where are we going with this?"

"I don't know," I said, trying to catch my breath and finding it hard when his mouth was still so close. "I didn't map this out, but…"

I shifted in his lap, testing my boundaries. Fang's hands slid up my back, under my wings and tickling the grooves where they folded into my body. I pushed his hair out of his face, shivering a little with the cooling trails of his wet kisses.

"I don't wanna stop," I admitted, squeezing his sides with my knees. "Not yet, I mean."

He leaned forward and kissed me chastely, lingering for a moment, and I knew he didn't want to stop, either. "Tell me what you want."

I settled my hands on his shoulders and rolled my hips slowly. "Just…just this."

Fang kissed me again, deeper this time, taking my mouth with his tongue. I unlocked my ankles and shifted my legs under me instead. He pressed his thumb into my hip. "Hang on, I have to—"

He reached down between us and adjusted himself, I guess so I wouldn't crush him. Then he attacked my neck, fingers and mouth and tongue all over me so quickly that I gasped.

My shifting body reacted to him just as responsively as his did to me. Desire pooled like syrup low in my belly. Sticky heat clung to my skin and an embarrassing whimper snuck past my lips.

Fang's hands gripped my hips and he moved with me. I threw my arms around him, my torso peeling apart with the undulating emotion pumping through my veins and into my heart. I felt myself get warm, very warm, the crotch of my underwear growing damp.

I buried my face between my arm and the side of his head, unable to do anything but try and breathe and keep moving. The skin at his neck was heady with his cinnamon-spicy scent and lavender hotel soap, strangely earthy and comforting at the same time. I kissed him there, finding his pulse point and loving the feel of it thumping under my lips like a jackhammer.

I kept mouthing away, eventually hooking onto the fleshy skin between his shoulder and neck and yanking a groan from him. I grinned and kept at it, marking him with my sucking mouth by accident but he didn't seem to mind in the slightest.

He wedged a hand under my thigh and suddenly I was on my back on my pillows again. I froze, surprised as all hell and manhandled unexpectedly.

Fang was between my thighs, wrapping me in a tight embrace but I couldn't stop my arms from locking, fingers digging into his shoulders in a small spike of panic.

Disconnected, I just shut my eyes and tried to coach myself. _It's Fang. You know him, he's just into it…_

And I was falling out of it.

_It's okay, it's okay—_

Just when I was getting to the point of _no, it's not okay, stop, stopstop! _Fang stopped moving. He started to pull back but I clenched my fingers harder, because the last thing I felt like I needed was the physical disconnect, too. "Don't."

"Max—"

"Don't," I said again, cutting him off. I worked my thighs loose until they fell open around him. "I'm okay, it's nothing."

"No, it's not nothing," Fang argued, leaning on a palm and looking down at me. "It was something I did, right?"

"It wasn't your fault," I said immediately, kicking myself for doing this _again_ and forcing the disconnect to freeze so I wouldn't start crying or shouting or both.

"Yes, it was," he said firmly. He clenched his jaw and shook his head at himself. "What was it? What did I do?"

I didn't want to tell him. I didn't want him to have to change because I needed to get used to things that set me off. Plus, even though he already knew I was struggling, it didn't stop the embarrassment from creeping in there, too.

But the look on his face told me he needed to know more than I wanted to protect him, and it wasn't the first thing I'd had to tell him not to do tonight.

_You're learning, _I reminded myself.

I opened and closed my mouth a few times. "It was just…being moved so fast. I went from leading to on my back in a blink and it just—I don't know."

He furrowed his brows but took the information in, filing it away.

"I just need to get used to it," I told him, running my hands up his arms and trying to connect again, focusing on him and only him. "It won't always be like this. I don't want you to—"

"I'll do whatever I can," he said softly. He tapped my wrist with a finger. "No wrists. No yanking you around."

I frowned. "But what if I want that? You know, eventually?"

"Then just tell me, Max," he said with a soft grin. "And we can experiment when you're ready. Just like tonight."

I reached up, running my hand over his cheek, the stubble at his chin like sandpaper. What had I done to get so lucky? To find him again, the only person who ever understood absolutely everything about me? In our so very unlucky lives, we'd found each other, and I'd never been so grateful.

"What are you thinking?" Fang asked, leaning into my hand.

"That I don't know what I'd do without you," I said honestly.

"You'd be fine," he responded confidently, but I shook my head.

"I wouldn't be healing," I told him. "I'd be shoving everything away all the time, because you wouldn't be here to help push me." I leaned up and kissed his chin. "I'm not done with you yet. Come here."

He did, and I smoothed my hands over his broad shoulders, down his lean chest, hard and scarred and mine. He curled around me, his hands careful and tender, palming and thumbing over dips and peaks of bones and flesh. He tried to move us, to pull us up so I could lead again because, clearly, I was better at that then being vulnerable under him, but I shook my head.

"It's okay," I said, my lips on his jaw, his breath in my ear. "Just hold me. Don't let me go."

"I won't," he promised, sliding a warm hand behind my neck and into my hair. "I've got you."

I encouraged him to move, closing my legs around him again. He wrapped his arm around one of them, holding my thigh in his hand and grinding against me softly.

"Keep talking," I breathed, and my eyes fell shut.

"I love you," he said into my ear, squeezing my leg. "I love learning about you, what you like." He nuzzled my neck and nipped down a breast before pulling it into his mouth again briefly.

I hummed quietly, running my fingernails through his hair. His mouth burned spectacularly, and the rhythmic movement of his clothed cock lit the rest of my body like a fuse. I lifted my hips from the mattress to meet his stirring pelvis, moving with him.

He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to my shoulder, smothering a deep noise there. "I wish I could touch you all the time," he growled gutturally. His movements changed, the circling gyrations morphing into long, slow strokes and I sunk my teeth into my lip, clutching at him so tight. He bore down, picking up his pace and that's when I started to really wind up, heart thundering in my ears.

_Oh, God,_ I thought, or maybe gasped out loud, I couldn't tell, but Fang kissed me again. Pressure built in my body, deep and tingling and everything tightened wonderfully. An incredible flush blossomed across my chest.

Fang mumbled my name against my lips and my fingers on his sides dug into his skin. I slid my hands around his back, his overheated flesh working hard under my fingertips.

He kept talking to me but I was having a hard time concentrating on anything else but our bodies. The low rumble of his voice in his chest, his hands holding me, his deliberate movements, my suddenly shaking legs—all of it flooded my system and I was electric, buzzing with feeling and tense muscles.

Everything coiled and curled with a delicious intensity and then it was me talking, telling him not to stop and letting his name tumble from my lips until he swallowed my voice with his mouth. His hips stuttered and, for a second, I thought I wasn't going to get there with him. He froze up a little and I felt him pulse where he was pressed against me, his dick twitching inside his boxers.

But he kept moving after a moment, his weight sagging on top of me, and the extra pressure swept me right off my feet. My fingers caught in the elastic waistband of his boxers and I crumbled, clenching around nothing and pressed so fully against him.

I let myself go limp and Fang slowed to a stop, breathing hard with me, swiping his thumb over the back of my thigh.

God, I hadn't planned for this outcome when I'd pulled him out of sleep. We'd been so busy or so tired with everything that personal time dwindled to stolen kisses during the day and handsy cuddling in bed at night.

We'd gone from familiar strangers to rekindled in a month, skipping steps all over the place, and our relationship was anything but linear at this point. But here we were, in Vegas, in an expensive hotel with the future pretty far up in the air, failure around every drunken, tourist-infested corner—and I felt rubbery, stupidly confident, and _ecstatic _despite it all_. _

I just couldn't hold it in, and I burst out laughing.


	9. Libation (T)

**This is not date night, sorry! It's the one where Max and Nightshade tried to play a drinking game to get to know each other better.  
**

**Unbeta'd, as usual. **

* * *

**LIBATION**

**MAX**

Drinking is never a good idea with me. With Spencer, we just end up breaking things. Take my DDR mat, for example. With Fang—well, we all know how that one turned out.

With Nightshade…Erasers can't even _get_ that drunk. Did he tell me this before we ended up with a handle of rum between us?

No, he did not.

So there I was, awake from a nightmare that hadn't woken Fang, sitting in the living room and watching old episodes of _X-Files_ because Nudge had left one playing. Enter: Nightshade.

"What are you doing up?" I asked, glancing over my shoulder as he scuffled in, soles of his feet thumping on the hardwood hall floor.

"I've got night in my name," he said, dropping heavily next to me and kicking his feet up onto my coffee table. "Sleep is for the _weak_."

Which was probably a thinly-veiled attempt at covering for the fact that he'd had a disturbing dream, too. Join the club.

"Aliens creep me the fuck out," Nightshade said gruffly, glancing at the television.

"Really? Of all the crap at the School you know about, _aliens_ are what scares you?" I asked, gesturing at the old-school graphics lighting my television screen.

"That and grapes."

I actually paused _X-Files_ and turned to him, the only expression on my face a raised eyebrow. "_Grapes?_"

"They cause kidney failure in dogs," Nightshade said with a shrug. "Two or three Erasers turned out to be allergic, and I've never wanted to take the chance. Can you imagine? All the shit that I survived only to die from _grapes?"_

I laughed. "You know, I know very little about you outside of what Parker cared to learn."

"And I know zero about you," he said. "Aside from like, first bird-girl created and your shitty School life."

I dropped my head against the back of the couch. "We should probably actually get to know each other, because most of my memories of you consist of bad things." I frowned up at the ceiling.

"Same," he agreed. "I'm used to you not giving a shit about anything but the mission. And seeing you here, like this, is so freaking foreign. I keep telling myself you're not the psycho she was. I mean, you still nailed me in the 'nards that one time, so I know _some_ of you, but..."

"Kicking you was for being a dick about Bane," I muttered, playing with the cap to my water bottle.

"Yeah, I got that," he said. "Believe me, lesson learned. But still, we should play a drinking game or something. Otherwise you'll just continue to exist in my head as this weird, alternate reality version of Parker."

I lifted my head to look at him. "A drinking game?"

"Yeah, you know. Two truths and a lie, or something," he said, trademark easy grin sliding onto his face. "Bet you're a sloppy drunk."

I rolled my eyes. "I'm a lightweight. And apparently, I'm a fun drunk, if what Spencer tells me is true."

Nightshade's eyes went wide. "A _lightweight? _I'm definitely getting you drunk. Where's the tequila?"

He scurried off the couch and I sighed. "I am _not_ getting drunk tonight."

But he was already gone, and I heard him rustling around in my kitchen. I followed him, but he must have sniffed the alcohol out (or maybe had gotten into it before. Note to self: check the levels in each of my liquor bottles). I just sighed and snagged two whiskey glasses.

"You've got Vizcaya? What the hell, holding out on me much?" he said, holding the bottle up by the neck. I just rolled my eyes and popped the back door open. He followed me out and we plonked down on the porch steps.

"I don't really know my alcohol. I just get a bunch of this stuff as gifts," I told him as he poured a shot's worth in one glass. "Hold your horses there, buddy," I leaned forward to block the second glass. "I'm only, like, a hundred pounds. If you want this game to last more than two rounds, give me half shots."

He grumbled but agreed, splashing the amber liquid into my glass. "Alright, two truths and a lie. Loser has to take a shot and answer a question. Wanna go first?" He passed me my glass and sat back with his.

I considered him for a moment, crossing my legs under me. I was exceptionally good at spotting lies, so I doubted I was going to end up with a hangover between the two of us.

"I chose my real last name off of Sally Ride," I said, looking straight at him with as much of a neutral expression that I could muster on two hours of sleep. "I once had a chunk of my hair dyed pink. And I love milk."

Nightshade watched me, playing with his glass and leaning his head on his hand. "Well I haven't seen you drink milk once since we've been back, but you've also been downing water like you live in the Sahara…" His eyes narrowed. "But I know from our conversation that you're not into sundresses. You wore the clothes for two days when we first got here, so I'm saying the pink thing. No way would you'd bother, considering the way you travelled on the streets."

I grinned. "Wrong."

"Fuck me, seriously?" Nightshade said. He rolled his eyes and slammed back his shot. "So which is the lie?"

I snagged the bottle of rum from the step below us. "Milk. I can't stand it."

"So close," he said under his breath and held out his glass. I poured him another shot while I thought of a question.

"If you could do anything normal, what would it be? Career-wise, I mean."

Nightshade sat back and looked down into the alcohol. "I'm a whiz with numbers, so I dunno...some kind of number cruncher?"

"But is that what you _want_ to do?" I asked. He contemplated that and then shook his head.

"I'd probably get bored. I guess I have no clue, really. I like doing my own thing too much," he said.

I accepted this with a nod and snagged my water bottle while he tried to think of his own two truths and a lie.

"Alright. I passed training when I was three and a half. I picked my codename. I once lit a Bunsen burner from two feet away with a lighter and a fart."

I didn't even need to use my bullshit detector for this one, but I laughed anyway. "You _what?"_

He feigned innocence. "Could be the lie. Could be the truth."

I knew the lie was the one about his name. Erasers were assigned codenames, not allowed to choose. I knew as much from Bane. "The lie is your name. You lit a Bunsen burner with a _fart?"_

Nightshade swore and downed his shot. "I was trying to impress someone. Turns out farts aren't impressive to women."

I snickered. "Oh, man. You and the Gasman would have gotten along great," I said without thinking. Gazzy's absence in my life panged sharply and I cleared my throat. "Uh, okay. If you could invent anything, what would it be?"

He didn't even hesitate. "Time machine."

I didn't really have to ask why. I knew he wished he could go back and save Penny, just like I wished I could go back and fight my way out of that home in Seattle, where I'd been taken at eighteen. "Well gee. Way to bring down the mood," I said sarcastically, hoping my levity would be appreciated.

It was. He grinned sheepishly. "You asked."

"True. My turn," I said and paused to sip at my water, balancing my untouched rum in my lap. "I can play the drums, I've been to the South Pole, and I've eaten desert rat."

Nightshade smiled widely. "Drums. I saw that interview with that blonde, bespectacled chick. You suck at drums."

I glowered at him and sucked back my half shot, alcohol burning my esophagus as it went down. It at least tasted somewhat like maple syrup, so it wasn't all bad. Water was a terrible chaser though. "To be fair, I can play them. On the piano, through a programmed kit."

"Doesn't count," he said, pouring another dash into my glass. "What was the last thought you remember having before going to sleep earlier tonight?"

I flushed. I tried to tamp down on it and scrabbled for something other than the truth—but Nightshade caught it. "No lying!"

I glared at him. "Fine. Have it your way. My last thought was how long it would be before Fang and I had sex again, alright?"

Nightshade's eyes went wide as the tires on the Jeep in the yard. "Oh-_kay_, I didn't need to know that."

"You asked," I mimicked him. I considered downing the small amount of rum in my cup just to save me from the mix of emotions. If this had been Spencer, that would have been an automatic 'time to talk' scenario, where he'd start reassuring me about doing what felt right, or how what Fang and I were doing was already a step in the right direction, yadaa-yadaa. But because it was Nightshade, someone who I barely even knew and who already felt bad about how fucked up I was, we both just sort of cleared our throats awkwardly.

Nightshade tapped the side of his cup. "I once wore a thong for a day, carrots make me puke, and rum is my favorite alcoholic drink."

I blinked at him and his unchanging face, thrown a little off-guard by the quick return to our game. I shook my head and tried to work through his lies. Alright, well Nightshade had slept with more Eraser women than probably calculable, so the thong most likely wasn't a lie. I could imagine him doing it just for kicks. He clearly knew his alcohol, if he'd fished out my rum from the cabinet I kept it in and called it by name, which left…

"Carrots," I said. He pointed down at my glass and I grumbled, throwing it back.

"You seriously thought I'd wear a thong? Regulation underwear, Max. No Erasers had _thongs_." He laughed at me as my face soured, and I knew that if I stood up, I'd for sure wobble around a little bit.

Parker hadn't been forced into regulation clothing, so it had thrown me off. I groused under my breath and sighed. "Ask your damn question."

"Oh, so your potty mouth comes out when you drink, huh?" he said, lifting the rum and pouring me a little more than a half shot. I just grimaced at him, picturing a swinging baseball bat colliding with his head in a wonderful cacophony of ringing noises and hollow thunks.

"What was the last lie you told? Aside from this game, obviously," he said, kicking back onto his elbow and stretching his legs out.

"Honestly," I started, smirking at my glass, "I think it was to Bane. I told him you gave me the stink eye. It was my excuse to come find you after I found that note in Parker's sundress."

"You haven't told a lie since then?" he asked, skepticism coloring his tone. I shook my head.

"I don't think so. I've had to be pretty honest lately," I said and traced my finger around the rim of the glass. "The joys of trying to heal."

He gestured to me. My nose felt a little numb and I rubbed at it. "I hate snakes, I gave myself the middle name Valencia, and I met Dylan in Africa."

He squinted at me. "Dylan in Africa."

I pumped my fist, then realized immediately afterwards that I was probably only doing that because the drink was getting to me. "Nope! Middle name. My mother's name was Valencia."

He sighed and downed his drink, then filled the next one himself with a good shot and a half. I didn't protest, because it seemed to me like he wasn't even starting to feel it.

"Favorite book," I asked, because I didn't have anything juicy in mind.

He looked down at his hands and gave a soft smile. "_The Trial._ Franz Kafka."

Our one conversation about Penny came to mind. I asked the question before I could think not to. "One of Penny's, too?"

Instead of getting angry with me for bringing her up, Nightshade just nodded. "She read it to me. The version she had was in the original German," he said, then glanced up. "She translated it so I could follow along."

"Sounds like a smart cookie," I said gently. In a way, it sort of reminded me of Fang and his encyclopedic knowledge.

"I wish…" He stopped and looked at his rum, then swallowed it and grabbed for the bottle. "I wish you could have met her."

"Me, too," I whispered truthfully. "She and Fang could have some kind of information-off. See who's smarter."

"He like to randomly look shit up and spout random knowledge all over the place, too?"

I breathed a laugh. "Yeah. I swear, he's got a photographic memory or something." I looked up at him and his sad, blue-green eyes. "I hate that you can't have your happy ending."

"I probably don't deserve it," he muttered into his glass.

"Don't say that," I protested, setting mine down next to my leg.

"Why not?" he challenged, pouring himself an actual glassful, all the way to the rim. "Eight years I've spent killing and whoring around. Training other killers. Can't even drink myself into oblivion."

He swallowed a good gulp of his glass, and I realized his intent had been to weasel embarrassing information from me to distract himself. I was a lightweight, and he was unable to blackout and forget. But it was backfiring on him, as he clearly seemed to fade into the land of memory when alcohol was involved.

"You're lucky you have Fang," he continued, licking his lips and refusing to look at me. "Someone who accepts everything. Someone who loves you, even after everything. I lost that. I lost that, and every day I wish I could take her place."

"You didn't kill Penny, Shade," I said. "What happened wasn't your fault."

He just shook his head. "It doesn't matter. She's still dead, and I'm still here. I have a dead mate I never got to say goodbye to, and a dead daughter I never got to meet."

Oh, God. A _daughter_. He'd even known that it was a girl. That had to have come after Penny's body was turned over to maternity for postmortem examination. Even after seeing her dead body, then probably left to clean up his own room, they'd worsened the pain by giving him _reports_ on her.

I couldn't help but think of my own predicament. Not knowing if Fang and I could have a kid and picturing Penny, torn to pieces by her own baby…

"I named her." He laughed bitterly. "I don't know why. Not like it matters, she never even breathed real air—"

"Of course it matters," I said, tugging his glass from his hands. I set it on the porch, knocking it into my glass. "She was half you, half Penny, but she was still a person, and everyone deserves a name."

"That's the problem!" he half-shouted. "It—" His voice cracked and he was forced to lower it. "A name made it real. Made _her_ real. It meant Penny was really gone, and it meant nothing was ever gonna be the same."

I pursed my lips and had nothing to say. We were supposed to be getting to know each other and, granted, we were, but it felt…

Uncomfortable. Uncomfortable because of his occasional cameos inside my nightmares, and at the same time, selfish. He'd lost the one person that made him happy, and a child to boot. I should be able to bring up my own worries, form a friendship. I should be able to push aside those nightmares and just sympathize with him by sharing my own woes that only he could understand right now. But I just couldn't. I could only offer him comfort and keep my own insecurities private, protect myself and prove to him that I wasn't Parker.

"What did you name her?" I asked, hoping I wasn't stepping over some line.

He didn't answer me at first. He stared unblinking at the trees. "Lily," he said finally, a whisper. "I named her Lily."

Nightshade stood from the porch and slouched off into the tree line, his head down. I almost went after him, but my gut told me not to.

Instead, I gathered our glasses and stood, but I hesitated on the porch step. After a moment, I poured some of what was left in Nightshade's glass onto the ground, then finished it off myself before heading back up to Fang.

* * *

**I didn't include this in the main storyline because I couldn't find a good place for it to go. I love developing my characters, I love making them feel real, and Nightshade already had a scene alone with Max to explain his actions. I bring his changes and flaws through in other ways, and this scene simply felt like extra, so it was cut from Catalyst proper.** **I mentioned that this particular event happened, and that felt like enough to show the progression of Max and Nightshade's rather strange acquaintanceship.**

**But I figured I'd throw it up here because that's what this side-story/lost chapters thing is for. **

**Please review!**


	10. Date Night (M) 1 of 2

**Date night, part one. Rated M, obviously. Unbeta'd.**

* * *

**DATE NIGHT**

**MAX**

"_That's it," he said, pulling me flat and I squeaked in surprise. "I'm ravishing you until you can't breathe."_

He cut off my laugh with his lips, sliding a hand into my hair to hold me tight. My hands slid out from under me and instead, I pushed one against the couch to turn us onto our sides. We bumped the couch—and my precariously balanced, soy sauce-saturated carton of rice tipped to spill all over us.

Fang snatched at the carton and turned it back upright, but the damage was done. "Aw, crap," I said, reaching up to wipe at my shoulder. Rice and sauce littered our skin. I climbed off him. "I forgot I put that up there."

He sat up behind me, wrapping an arm around my waist while I leaned to grab napkins. "Could be fun to clean up," he said, and _licked_ my shoulder.

I laughed and swatted at him. "Ew, quit it. We're gonna get all sticky."

He rolled his eyes and took the napkins I offered, brushing fried rice from his chest. "Too late for that. Either way, we're going to be smelling Chinese for the rest of the night." He pointed to the soy sauce setting into the various blankets under us.

"Crap," I said again. I turned towards him and wiped more food from his neck. "Alright, I'm gonna toss these in the wash real quick. I'll bring back some wet paper towels or something."

"Or," he said, tightening his arm around me as I tried to stand. "We could just take a quick shower. Probably better than paper towels."

I paused and looked at him. He was watching me carefully, gauging my reaction.

We'd been down to our underwear in Vegas a couple weeks ago and multiple times since. We hadn't quite hit _naked _yet, but...

Well he didn't suggest a lot of things. He let me move how I wanted to, at my pace, and this was the first time he'd suggested moving forward.

"Okay," I murmured, catching surprise flit across his face.

"Really?" he asked. One of his fingers played with my bra strap and I nodded.

"Yeah. Except—" Except I didn't want it to be this two second thing we did just to check it off. One of us would be under a hot stream while the other sat in the cold, and that didn't sound at all fun. "Except why don't we make it a bath instead?"

"That won't be very quick," he pointed out. I nodded again, dumping the soiled napkins in the Chinese food bag and giving him a toothy grin.

"Exactly."

Fang kissed my sticky shoulder. "Alright. I'll take care of the blankets and the food if you handle the bath."

"Deal," I said, disentangling myself from him and scooping up our shirts. It would give me time to mentally prepare for what I'd agreed to, and he knew that. "Oh, don't forget to spray that with the stain stuff—"

"Yeah, yeah," Fang waved me off, gathering the blankets in his arms and disappearing out into the hall.

I made my way upstairs, dropping off our shirts in the hamper and trying not to freak out. I was thrilled, don't get me wrong, but I was still scared that I'd end up curled into my pillows by the end of the night, like that first night we'd tried having sex.

It didn't always go perfectly. Sometimes I couldn't push away intrusive thoughts, and we'd end up in the living room with a cups of tea or hot chocolate between our palms, just talking. Other times, I could fight past it, or it didn't happen at all, and we'd end the night the same way Vegas had ended. Well, before the 'exploring gutted out hotels' part.

But we were learning, and I was trying my best not to end up cocooned under my wings and shutting him out.

_Just stay focused on him, _I reminded myself. I tied my hair up and leaned over to turn on the water in the spacious tub. It warmed quickly and I plugged up the bottom.

I heard our bedroom door shut. "That was fast," I called over my shoulder.

"I'm extremely well-motivated," Fang said, making his way into the bathroom. "The Chinese might topple out of the fridge on the next person who opens it though." I snickered and Fang's palms settled on my shoulders. "You sure both of us will fit in there?" he questioned, glancing at the tub.

"We'll make it work," I said, turning to face him and smoothing my hands over his chest and down his muscular abdomen. "Just means we'll have to sit _really _close together."

Fang cupped my face in his hands, kissing first my forehead before tilting his head to kiss me properly, full on the mouth. He started out soft while I got his belt open, running his tongue over my bottom lip until I let him in. I let gravity take care of his jeans while his hands wandered down.

"I really do like this," he said throatily, tracing the lace-covered underwire of my bra with his thumb. He slipped under the band, swiping at the skin at the bottom of my breast. "I love you in blue."

"I've been told it's my color," I said, dipping my fingers into the elastic waistband of his boxers. I hadn't seen him without them since before we'd been taken, and I wondered how much of my memory was embellishment.

Probably not a lot, judging by what I normally felt rubbing against me through two layers of cotton.

"Nude is a good color on you, too," he said with a grin, pushing his thumb up under the cup of my bra. He found a stiffened nipple waiting for him and the electric rubbing of his finger travelled straight to my belly, curling warmly below the waist.

I pushed up to meet his lips again and let him unclip my bra. He took in the expanse of skin at my back with a flat palm and I shivered. His free hand cupped a breast, warm, calloused fingers kneading my flesh and I groaned a little.

"Best part about having the house to ourselves?" he said, dragging a strap down my shoulder and finding the skin there with his teeth. "No one's around to hear us."

I snickered and pulled my arms out of the bra to let it fall to the floor, looking down to kick it aside.

I caught sight of the bathtub. "Oh, crap!" I spun and turned off the water. It wasn't overflowing, but two people in the tub with that much water would definitely slop out the sides.

"I'm starting to think you're trying to make as many messes as possible," he muttered, reaching into the tub and pulling the plug up to let some water drain. "First the Chinese, now the tub…"

I pressed my palm to his sticky neck and pulled it away. It made a gross _shlick_ sound. "Yeah, because _that's_ what I wanted instead of, you know, food."

Fang flicked his water-soaked fingers at me. Before I could bend to splash water back at him or even just sock him in the shoulder, he attacked my neck, kissing and sucking just below my ear and then down right under my jaw. His wet fingers trailed hotly across my waist, dipping just below the waistband.

"Oh, _Jesus_, Fang," I said, groping for his shoulders as my eyes fell shut. His mouth was gentle, teeth moving to tug at the fleshy part of my neck and my shoulder light enough not to bruise me. The hair at the back of my neck stood straight up and I shoved my hands down between us to push his boxers over his hips.

Fang stepped out of them and molded himself to me, hands moving back up so his thumbs grazed just under my wings and skimmed the grooves in my back. He worked me pliant with his hands and his mouth, soothing whatever unease existed with well-known touches to my body, areas he'd either known about from when we were younger or that he'd been learning in the last few weeks.

Meanwhile, he was lean and hard compared to my more soft resolve. And yeah, that was generally how Fang felt, even when he wasn't palming at me, but a certain firm part of him pressed into my abdomen.

"Ignore it," Fang mumbled into my skin, but this was the first time he'd been completely naked in front of me in a while.

"He's a little incessant," I said, my hands wandering over the swell of his ass. This was mine, this was all mine and I could have him whenever I wanted. The warm give of his skin under my fingers was reserved for me, and no one else and that thought made me feel like I'd inhaled pure oxygen. "Is it weird that I like that? How…responsive it is?"

Fang snorted and popped the metal button on my denim shorts. He shimmied them down and let them pile around my ankles. "That only makes things easier, because I can't control what it does."

His hands settled at the waistband of my underwear, and he hesitated.

"It's okay," I told him, and it really was. I wasn't the only one vulnerable, and somehow that helped, even though he didn't seem to have any issues being completely naked in front of me. I hadn't even looked at him yet, but I didn't want to pull away until we were both equally undressed and on an even playing ground.

I tucked my fingers into his and moved his hands to hook into my underwear. "Go ahead," I said, trailing my hands up his arms, following one of the scars that curled around his forearm and into the soft crease of his elbow. "Gotta get in that bath sometime, and wet panties definitely aren't fun."

"Well…" Fang's eyes met mine and were full of mirth. "_Sometimes_ wet panties are fun."

I rolled my eyes and the tension died. He pulled my underwear over my hips, his hands sliding down the sides of my legs while he followed them down. His lips met my thigh, my knee, my calf when he lifted my foot to extract it from my underwear.

My breath balled in my chest and I pushed my fingers into his hair, silky strands slipping through my fingers. He trailed back up and swept my knees out from under me, cradling me in his arms. I let out a squeak and yanked at his hair by accident.

"Drop me and die," I growled, but he just chuckled and stepped into the tub, lowering us both into the warm water. I leaned forward to plug it back up and then settled back against his chest.

"Okay, so it's a little bit of a squish to fit," I said, wiggling to get comfortable. Fang reached over to the little shelf next to the tub and nabbed a washcloth. He grabbed my body wash next and dunked the washcloth.

"I'm not complaining," he said, nudging my side with his knee and then gently pushing at my shoulder to lean me forward again.

"Yeah, I can feel that," I teased, referencing his friend still poking me in the back. He didn't respond, sliding the washcloth over my shoulder and scrubbing away the sticky soy sauce. He didn't stop there though.

Long, patient swipes swept up my back and around my pulled-in wings. He pulled me back to him again and worked over my shoulders and down my arms, taking his time between each of my fingers. I let my head loll to the side so I could find the sensitive skin at the edge of his jaw with my lips.

"Good idea," I told him as goosebumps rose all over my skin. The soapy washcloth ran over my collarbones before finding my chest and I ran my nails over his knee next to my hip. "The bath, I mean." It was a little lower pressure than jumping right into the no-pants dance, but definitely still extremely intimate.

"Shower was my idea," he said, scrubbing quickly at his own sticky neck before draping the washcloth over the side of the tub. "Bath was yours."

I blew a raspberry and then let my eyes slide shut as he cupped water in his palm and trickled it over my soapy skin. "You know what I mean."

He hummed and wrapped his arms around my waist, nosing up behind my ear. I could still feel his erection against my back, and I knew being naked in the bath with me was not making it any easier on him.

I pressed my fingers into the muscles of his legs, massaging up his thighs and paying attention to the way his thumb caught at my navel. His cock twitched and I rolled my eyes.

Ignore it, my ass.

I turned in his arms, bracing my hands against the lip of the tub to resettle and straddle his thighs. His soft, dark brown eyes were curious and I bit the inside of my cheek before ducking forward to smash my lips to his. I pressed close on purpose, brushing wet fingertips through his hair and letting him invade my mouth with his searching tongue.

His own soaped-up fingers found my thighs, wrapping around them under the water before moving up to my hips where they stayed. I took charge, always more confident as a leader. I curled my toes against his legs, trailing my lips over his cheek, down his jaw and neck until I reached the soft skin between his throat and shoulder. I didn't stay there long, despite the way I knew I could rip a groan from him if I kept at it long enough. I continued, moving down to his collarbones with my mouth. My hands went lower, pressing into his abdomen, playing at his toned body and moving down, down, down until I hit curled, wiry hair under the water.

I grazed the base of his shaft, and then he had my ass in his hands. I made a noise against his chest, the heat of his palms hotter than the water around us. He squeezed, kneading his thumbs into my flesh.

I couldn't help but my crush my thighs into his sides, loving the feel of his rough hands cupping me, pulling me closer and forcing my knees a little wider.

His cock caught between us alongside my hand, the soft sack of his testicles sliding under me, rubbing against my firming folds and I inhaled him greedily. I nipped at his chest once before taking his mouth again, allowing the base of his dick to grind against me, shooting sparking sensations down my legs.

My moan was deep and I took the plunge, wrapping my hand around him. I heard the way his breath caught, felt his heartbeat thump hard against my other palm, and I grinned. I'd had him in my hand before, but only for several seconds while I'd guided him into me.

That was a dangerous thought, because God knew I wanted him. _Be patient_, I told myself. _You'll get there. Focus on him._

His skin was incredibly soft. He was very hard, reddened head peeking out of the water. I pulled back from his mouth so I could really take him in, tracing my fingers over the lines and veins of him.

"Max," Fang started, voice husky and deep. He swallowed, bump in his throat bobbing. "I can deal with it later, you don't have to—"

"I want to," I said, cutting him off. I wanted to focus on him, give him pleasure, hear him groan without having to worry about my own thoughts or how my body might react.

Which was a little bit impossible with the way I could feel all of him shifting against me and the knuckle of my thumb brushing through my own curls, close to that bundle of nerves already throbbing in excitement.

I let go of him and pushed off his chest, standing and shivering slightly when the cold air of my bathroom hit my skin. It effectively killed my arousal.

"Scoot forward," I said as he watched me, eyes attached to my figure like a magnet. "I want you to show me what you like."

He didn't move for a moment, electing instead to run his hands up my calves. "It's really not that hard," he said, brushing the backs of my knees. I squirmed a little under his gaze and his fingers.

"I beg to differ," I said, glancing pointedly at his dick. He rolled his eyes, and I continued on a more serious note. "But really. I just want to…not fuck it up. Or whatever. You do a lot for me, and I want to do something just for you."

He tapped his fingers against my leg a couple of times, as if gauging to make sure I was really okay with doing this, then nodded. I stepped to the side and he scooted forward, allowing me to slide behind him.

I settled back into the water, slipping my legs around his sides. Without the distraction of parts of him rubbing against parts of me, I could concentrate just on him.

I kissed the leathery ridge of his wing and wrapped my hand around him again, velvet-soft skin responding immediately to my touch. He was tense, the muscles in his back rigid under my searching lips.

"Relax," I whispered, my stomach twisting. He was so used to being careful with me, and I'd done a lot of flinching and freaking out to warrant that kind of reaction. "I'm okay, really. We're learning, remember?"

I stroked up and down his shaft slowly, loosely gripping him because I had _no idea_ how hard was too hard, or how fast to go…

"I wanna make you feel good," I murmured, my free hand wandering around his chest. I couldn't see anything over his back, but I felt his hand clasp around my knee. "So show me how."

I felt his stomach clench under my free hand. I grinned a little, burying my nose in the feathers near his shoulder blade.

He picked up my body wash again and took my hand away from him, spreading my fingers to drop a bit of it into my palm. "Makes it easier in the water," he told me, which was news to me. He guided my hand back around him, moving me in long, smooth strokes that lingered near his head. I figured it out pretty quickly and he let me take over, moving instead to lace his fingers through the hand I still had pressed against his chest. I continued the ministrations he'd set up, feeling him start to unlock muscle-by-muscle, sinking back into me. His thumb drew lazy circles on my knee.

"Okay?" I asked quietly, laying my cheek against his back and breathing in his wet skin.

His breath out was long and slow. "Yeah," he said, lifting my unoccupied hand to kiss my knuckles. "Much different than my own hand."

I went a little red, unbidden images of Fang pleasuring _himself_ popping into my head.

He wasn't done. I was pretty sure he was catching on to the fact that I liked when he talked to me, mainly because I kept asking for it whenever I was having trouble. Sometimes he just started up on his own, and tonight was no different.

"You turn me on so much," he murmured, and it came out a tad breathless. "So many little things drive me crazy. The smell of your skin in the middle of the night, the sound of your voice when you wake up in the morning..."

I peppered small kisses all over his back, clamping my legs around him. I got adventurous with my hand, gripping him a little tighter and moving my thumb a bit to the side. "How in the world is my sleepy voice a turn on?"

A low groan caught in his throat, vibrating through his back. "'S husky. Sexy."

He seemed to be having trouble paying attention to both the conversation and my hand, and I didn't mean to, but I sped up on him, pressing my entire front into his back. I decided fair was fair and just admitted it to him.

"I like when you talk to me," I said, dragging my nose up his spine. "I have no idea what the hell to say back half the time, but your voice, Fang…" I trailed off, not really used to expressing myself this way.

"Good…because I…can't help it sometimes," he ground out, fingers clenching harder around mine. His hips jerked minutely under the water and he clutched my knee hard. I _loved_ that I could him make that groan and move so jerkily, that I had that amount of influence over him.

"Fuck, Max," he breathed, and my chest filled with pride. I wished I could see his face, kiss his lips, run my nails down his chest—

As it was, his wings twitched, straining against the inside of my legs, feathers quivering in the tiny space left between us.

I tried for more talk, pushing further out of my comfort zone. "I want you so bad," I said into his ear, pulling my free hand from his and running it up under the base of his wings as best I could with them folded against him. I slid my fingers into the soft blue-black downy feathers. Our wings were sensitive right around here, and I knew this spot on him was pretty much directly linked to the parts of him I was currently stroking.

I'd found that out accidentally, by the way. Like there was a nerve that just flipped on. Judging by the way his fingers went white around my knee, I'd found it again.

"I know we're taking our time, but I can't wait for you to be mine again," I continued, brushing my thumb around his tip, purposefully too soft compared to my faster strokes and tighter grip. I couldn't hear the noise he made, but I felt it in the way his shoulders rolled back slightly, so I carried on, emboldened.

"I remember last time like it was yesterday," I said, pausing to kiss the base of his neck. His fingers were so tight on me, but if he was hurting me, I couldn't tell. I was too lost in watching how his body moved, in how he responded to my hand and my words.

The next words spilled out of me before I could stop them, foreign on my tongue because I was totally not used to speaking like this. "I remember how you made me feel, how good you felt inside me—"

I flushed, unable to continue because I had no idea where to go from there since I hadn't actually meant to say it, but that didn't seem to matter to Fang.

He groped for the washcloth and grunted, pushing into my hand and freezing. The move was so sudden that, for a second, I thought maybe I'd done something wrong and hurt him. But then the terrycloth material brushed my hand and his cock pulsed a few times, twitching in my still-moving hand.

Fang cursed softly and laid a hand over mine to still me. I ran my thumb down his length one more time, then tugged the soiled washcloth from his fingers and dumped it outside the bathtub. I wrapped my arms back around his chest and pulled my knees up, clapping them gently against his sides. He was still breathing a little raggedly, but he took one of my hands and pressed it to his chest. I waited for him, sweeping my thumb over a stiffened nipple, filled with an unbelievable rush of exhilaration.

When his breathing finally evened out, he exhaled noisily. "Don't know what the hell you're saying, huh?"

"I don't know where that came from." His body shook a little with quiet laughter. "Seriously, my mouth had a mind of its own."

"You talking dirty," he said, shaking his head. "Never thought I'd see the day."

Yeah, same here. I peered down at him in my arms, propping my chin on his shoulder. His eyes were closed, and I smiled, looking down in thought.

That was when I noticed his dick.

I snorted without meaning to, then clapped a hand over my mouth.

He opened one eye and followed my gaze. "You _better_ not be laughing at my—"

"No!" I tried to reassure, but I couldn't wipe the smile off my face. "It's not what you think."

He just raised his eyebrows at me, waiting for an explanation.

"It's just…" I peeked back down at him. "It floats."

He glanced down, too. "And?"

"I don't know, I just didn't expect dicks to _float_," I said with another laugh. Fang shook his head at me and leaned back to kiss my temple. Then he stood, pulling down my shampoo. I got a little distracted and stared at his backside, a view I'd never actually seen before.

We were genetically engineered, our DNA tampered with to bring out perfect aspects. We were built to be sturdy, lithe, fit, and _good-looking_.

Fang's ass definitely fit _all_ of those bills.

"What are you doing?" I asked, and my voice came out hoarse. I tried to cough to cover it, but Fang glanced down at me, a knowing look on his face.

"Washing your hair," he said, peering back at the label on my shampoo bottle. "You don't smell like strawberries usually." He turned the bottle towards me.

"New shampoo," I commented. "Jasmine was getting old. You want to wash my hair?"

He shrugged. "Sure." Fang stepped out of the tub, nabbing a towel and wrapping it around his waist.

"Any reason why?" I asked, reaching up to take my hair out. It tumbled down around my shoulders, ends dipping into the water.

He kneeled down and folded his arms over the lip of the tub. "I like your hair. It always smells good." He reached out to run his fingers through it, brushing it behind my ear. "It's soft. It doesn't get all tangled anymore," he said, a teasing smirk on his face.

"Regular access to brushes and showers these days."

"There's that," he said, then popped open the lid of my shampoo. "Dunk your head."

I did, disappearing under the water and soaking my hair. When I came back up, I wrung it out a bit, then noticed a grin on his face.

"What?" I asked, flipping it all over my shoulder.

"Just admiring the view," he said lightly, squeezing some of my shampoo into his hand.

I rolled my eyes. "The next time we have a fight, remind me to get naked. Guaranteed victory," I said as I turned my back to him, sitting sideways in the tub.

"That's just cheating," he complained, carding his fingers through my hair. He worked the shampoo through the strands, massaging my scalp. My shoulders dropped forward against the porcelain.

"Oh, man," I groaned throatily, shutting my eyes. "I should have you wash my hair more often." He chuckled lowly and went on ghosting the pads of his fingers through my locks for a bit, long enough for me to start feeling drowsy.

Eventually, he nudged my shoulder, spinning me lazily towards the faucet. He tilted my head back and spun the knobs.

Before a single drop could touch me, I'd jerked back up.

My heart rate skyrocketed and I shut it down quick, snapping my fingers around his wrist. He waited patiently, cutting off the water.

"I'm alright," I muttered, shoving aside the water torture sessions before they could get too detailed. "He's not touching date night further than he already has."

Fang ran soapy fingers up and down my arm. "We can stop."

I shook my head, releasing his wrist and leaning back into his hand again. "I know you're not going to waterboard me, Fang. I'm in my house, in our tub. I just reacted before thinking."

He scrubbed his fingers through my hair again. "If you're sure," he said gently, giving me the option, as always, to back out.

"Just…try to keep it from splashing on my face," I said, trying to keep my voice strong despite the spike of fear. He started the faucet again and I repeated that little mantra: this was Fang, and I was in my house.

When the water hit, I managed not to flinch too hard, and that was mainly because Fang distracted me. "Do you know how I picked out your ring?"

I cracked an eye open and glanced at him while he moved his hand to block the spray of water from my face. "I saw the blog post you never put up about birthday presents in the old laptop. You didn't know what to get me."

He bobbed his head. "I walked into a pawn shop for Nudge. She never got her ears pierced, so I thought I'd get her a nice pair of earrings. Take her to the mall and get them done after opening gifts or something."

He cut the water and squeezed the excess out of my hair before reaching for my conditioner. "But then I saw that," he said, gesturing to the ring on my finger. I twisted it around once, falling right back into the habit. "And I thought about how much I liked seeing you in blue."

I hummed, watching the light catch on the sapphire. "So rings _and_ bras. Doesn't matter, so long as it's blue?"

"Well I didn't get to see you in bras back then, unless it was a bloody sports bra."

I breathed a laugh and started to get drowsy again with his careful fingertips pulling my conditioner through my hair. He must have been able to tell I wasn't going to be conscious for much longer, because he worked the conditioner through the rest of my hair swiftly, then rinsed it. He plucked the stopper out of the tub.

"Come on," he said, pulling another towel from the shelving. I stood, stepping out of the tub and right into the fluffy blue towel he had waiting.

He used it to tug me close, burying his nose into my soaking hair. "Definitely keep getting this shampoo," he said affectionately and I smiled into his cheek.

"Come to bed with me," I said, lethargy leeching into my voice. "You've successfully relaxed me into Jello, and now I just want you to spoon me."

He laughed. "Do you even hear the things you say sometimes?"

"I thought it was funny."

"Your hair is drenched," he reminded me, pulling away and pointing to the puddles I was making on the floor. I pulled my towel off and towel-dried it, squeezing water out while I walked back into the bedroom. I heard him replacing my shampoo and conditioner and I dropped my towel on the floor, wandering over to my dresser.

I still felt hot, and my skin was pink and sensitive, so I abandoned the idea of pajamas and crawled into bed in just my underwear.

I sunk my head into my pillow, shoving all of my hair up and away from my neck. "You know, I could get used to you washing my hair," I called, swathing myself with my cool sheets. "And the head massages. I like those, too."

Fang emerged from the bathroom and spotted my bare shoulders. "Not even going to bother with pajamas?"

"Too much effort," I muttered, eyes falling shut. I wriggled a hand out of the blankets and patted the space behind me. "Got a spot reserved for you. Clothing optional."

I heard him walking around my room, shutting off the light, and then the bed sunk with his weight.

"Blanket hog," he muttered in my ear, gently tugging the ends of the sheets out from under me. He curled around me, naked, still-drying skin sticking to mine.

"You just end up kicking them off," I said back.

"That's because you're hot enough to be a blanket as it is," he said into my neck as he got comfortable. "It's either sleep apart from you, have no blanket, and be too cold, or cuddle a space heater and kick off the blankets in the middle of the night when I get too hot."

"You _could _sleep in the library," I said, then wiggled back into him meanly.

"Yeah, right," he growled, a low rumble in his chest. His hand clutched at my hip to keep me pressed back against him.

Sleeping like this was going to be a _bad _idea.

_You're not ready yet_, I reminded myself, ignoring the way my nerves came alive with every inch of his naked skin pressed into mine. _You're tired and you literally just had an issue with him and the _faucet.

I sunk into him further and forced myself to calm down for much different reasons than I was used to. His thumb swiping over the skin of my stomach helped, soothing and constant. Eventually, he lulled me into a dreamless sleep that way, and I wondered how we'd deal with our very naked states in the morning.

* * *

**Wanna know how? Well you'll find out. DATE MORNING to be posted next. Please review!**


	11. Date Morning (M) 2 of 2

**Aaaand, here's part two. Unbeta'd.**

* * *

**DATE MORNING**

**MAX**

My sleep self had determined that I was going to deal with the near-naked state of myself and the _very_ naked state of Fang by tossing a leg over his hip.

I swear, sometimes I just make things more difficult for myself.

He wasn't awake yet, which was fortunate, because I cinched my leg around his waist a little tighter without meaning to. I hadn't been lying last night when I told him that I wanted him.

He was curled around me, one arm low across my waist, the other under my neck, pulling me close. My skin was sticky, too warm inside the shelter of his arms, and I wasn't sure how much of that was just body heat and how much was my awareness of his morning wood assaulting my thigh.

I gently pulled my leg off of him. His arm around my waist tightened briefly and then I heard him inhale deeply, waking up next to me.

I tried to figure out what time it was, but I couldn't see over his shoulder to the alarm clock. The light coming through the window was grey, accompanied by the soft patter of rain.

Fang's arm under my neck curled so his fingers could get to my hair, threading through the nearly-dry strands and brushing them lethargically.

"Morning," I mumbled into the over-heated skin of his neck.

He grunted, shifting his leg under the blankets to kick them off us. "Why does California have to be so hot?"

"Doesn't help that my A/C unit is the same one that came with the house when it was built," I grumbled, peeling myself away from him to roll onto my back. Cool-ish air washed over me once the blankets were on the floor. "It's like, seventeen years old."

Fang pulled his arm out from under me and propped his head up, looking down at me from his side. "I have no idea why that matters."

I snorted and rubbed a hand across my eyes, wiping away the sleep. "You learn a lot of things, owning a house. Being an adult is hard."

"Better than being fourteen and on the run," he said, palm flattening on my bare stomach. "We live in a house that isn't abandoned. No cobbling together electricity from ripped up grid wires."

"That was part of the fun," I said, reaching up to brush my fingers against the prickly stubble on his jaw.

"I think this is much more fun," Fang said with a wide grin, eyes wandering freely down my body. "Waking up in bed next to you, naked? Much better than dusty mattresses and leaking roofs."

"Even with the dying A/C?" I asked as his hand slipped higher, wrapping around my ribs. "That's closer to the old days."

"Can't all be perfect," he mumbled, dipping his head to kiss the hollow of my throat. "Well last night was pretty perfect."

I hummed. "First handjob wasn't too terrible?"

He groaned low, his fingertips circling higher. His mouth latched onto the top of my breast. "Terrible is the last word I'd use." His lips curved in a grin against my skin. "Just so you know," he started, teeth scraping lower, grazing over a nipple and I dropped my head back into the pillows. The cooling trail of his wet lips marked where he'd been and the skin across my breasts tightened, goosebumps rising and nipples hardening pleasantly. "It took me forever to fall asleep last night."

"Oh, yeah?" I asked, not really paying attention. My focus was on his hands, smoothing up the tops of my thighs and around the curve of my hips. He played with the cotton waistband of my underwear. A flash of heat seared down my spine. "Why's that?"

"I kept seeing you in that bra," he muttered gutturally. His wiggling fingers scooted around to my ass. "And I realized that I never got to ravish you the way I wanted."

My heart skipped a beat, which seemed impossible when it was already racing so quickly. "Is that why you're so eager this morning?" I asked, lifting my head to glance down at him.

"You're just stunning," he said. His fingers squeezed my ass once more, then dragged down the backs of my thighs. "The freckles, the scars, these legs…"

He traced a line down my legs until he got to my knees, and he gently worked them apart so he could settle between them.

I bit the inside of my cheek hard, trying to ignore the way I could feel my pulse in my crotch, directly correlated with how close he was. His blisteringly hot mouth found the inside of my thigh, spreading my legs open further and a thrill like white lightning reached into my chest and shocked my heart.

I couldn't really formulate a response. I felt my skin jump under his lips, the flesh of my thighs firming up with rushing blood. He eased one of my legs over his shoulder, kissing further upwards and tracing a thumb over the edge of my underwear where it sat at the crease of my thigh.

My breath hitched. His breath was warm, fanning against my skin, inches away from the most intimate part of me. He'd never looked down there before, not with my legs spread like this. And he wanted to do much more than just look. I clamped my legs around him without meaning to.

He misinterpreted. "Too much?"

"No," I breathed, but he'd already moved his hand away. "It's nerves, not…"

He pulled back a little, knocking my heel against his back. "I've seen you naked a few times now, Max."

"I know," I said, and he rested his cheek against my thigh, waiting for me to fess up. "But not so _close up_." I could feel blood flood my face.

He just gave me that lopsided grin I loved so much, hair rumpled from sleep and my fingers. "Well, no. But if you'll let me, I'd like to figure out what you like, too."

I could tell him no. He'd stop, always would, and he wouldn't give me any grief for it. But I wasn't hesitating because of my issues with flashbacks or disassociation. I was honestly just worried about what he would think, seeing me so up close like that.

_ What do you think he's gonna do, take one look and run for the hills?_

"Okay," I said. My stomach fluttered in both anticipation and extreme anxiety. "Alright. Just—"

"I'll go slow," he promised. He kissed the side of my knee up near his chin. "I'm probably going to need help, same as you last night."

I nodded, pushing my hair away from my neck. "I can do that."

Instead of getting right to it, Fang crawled back up my body, sliding an arm under me between my wings and my back. He took my mouth quickly, pushing past my lips with his tongue.

I arched into him, not expecting such preamble. He rolled his naked hips against me, still spread wide around his body. My pelvis jumped up to meet his and I breathed a huge sigh though my nose, familiar with this action, at least.

His kisses were intense, mouth like the balmy sun, body too warm as he took his time grinding against me slowly. His mouth broke from mine and he pressed his forehead into the pillow next to my ear. "I want to see you," he whispered, squeezing me tightly. "I want to touch you and make you feel as good as you made me feel last night."

_Oh, God._ One of his hands pushed against my lower back, tilting my hips up. His entire length slid along my rapidly dampening, cotton-clad center and my embarrassing whimper went unchecked.

He kept going, simulating long, smooth strokes. "I want to make you make these sounds all the time," he grunted as I buried my face in his shoulder, pressing my mouth to his skin. His cock kept gliding over the material of my underwear and the friction of both had me digging my fingernails into his shoulders.

He didn't pick up the pace, didn't press any harder. My entire brain was in a tizzy, filled with pleasure and Fang's unbelievably rousing voice. I couldn't decide if telling him how much I liked him talking to me was a good idea or a bad idea. On the one hand, it worked spectacularly to keep my entire focus on him.

On the other hand, I was going to completely _lose it, _and we weren't alone in the house anymore.

Fang slowed and I almost smacked him, the tightening coil low in my belly loosening. He let go of me and reached for my arms, softly tugging them from his shoulders so he could move down my body. He took one of my breasts into his mouth, swirling his tongue around my peaked nipple. My chest pretty much lifted into my throat, ballooning with fire and desire.

He let go with a wet pop, grabbing at my hips. He mouthed his way to the waistband of my underwear and by the time he got there, I was closer to telling him to get them off of me _now_ rather than being self-conscious.

Luckily, I didn't have to say anything. I dropped my legs to the bed on either side of him so he could scoot back and hook a finger into the bottom of my underwear.

His cool knuckle brushed against my hot, wet folds and my toes pressed into the sheets. It was only a light touch, but I was ridiculously hypersensitive, hyperaware of every hair on my head, every inch of his body that touched mine.

I lifted my hips and Fang slid my underwear over them, then pushed my legs up towards my chest so he could get them off my ankles. He slingshot them towards the hamper and I couldn't help but breathe a laugh. "Really?"

He just grinned and bent back over me, spattering chaste kisses low on my stomach, over my ticklish hips, down a thigh until he was settled on his knees with his eyes trained down below. His thumb dragged down through curly hair, very softly slipping between my outermost lips. The pad of his finger bumped over my clit and down to my slick center and I struggled to keep still.

Fang flattened on the bed, moving closer, dark brown eyes blown nearly black as they focused on me. His fingers pushed and pulled gently, spreading me open with one hand while the other stroked over all the different parts.

I shut my eyes again and moved my legs over his shoulders, shifting my hips towards him. A stream of fire flowed from his fingers to my skin, and I wanted so much more. I wanted his fingers to stroke me purposefully, to rub into me and get me off with deliberate movements.

"Max?" he asked, low and quiet against my thigh.

I answered with a soft noise, clenching when the tip of his thumb grazed over the bundle of nerves at the apex of my thighs.

"I know the basics," he muttered, the corner of his mouth brushing my thigh as he spoke. "But—"

My hand had fisted into my pillow next to my head and I forced my fingers to open, moving them down to guide his. I shifted his thumb down a tiny bit, then pressed it against that sensitive, fleshy button.

"Right there," I breathed, moving our fingers in small, slow circles. My toes slipped between the glossy feathers at his shoulders. They twitched and flared a little, and then his shoulders rolled, gigantic wings unfolding and draping over either side of our bed.

The pad of his thumb was rough but tender. My fingers went lax over his, skin buzzing, toes curling as he took over. I went absolutely liquid underneath his fingers, truly boneless.

He nudged my hand away, kissing one of my knuckles before wrapping his arm under and around my thigh. My hand found its way into his hair instead.

He experimented a bit, alternating the pressure of his thumb from barely there, feather-light touches to hard grinds and everything in-between, watching to how I responded and teasing me, whether or not he knew it.

I so did not care anymore about what he was thinking in terms of what I looked like or whatever, too distracted with his fingers, the sweep of his lips at the hollow junction of my thigh and my pelvis, so close to me that I whined in the back of my throat.

I blinked down at him, the teasing starting to drive me a little bit senseless. He was watching me, eyes hooded and so, so dark, complemented by the stormy, grey light slanting across the bed.

"Okay?" he asked, mouth forming the words against my flesh. His constant awareness for my own comfort melted my heart.

"Yes," I answered hoarsely, even though I'd never felt so exposed in my life. "I trust you."

I saw the way his eyes lit, filling with warmth and something else I couldn't identify. He kissed my thigh again and I dropped my head back onto my pillow with a small groan.

His thumb disappeared and was suddenly replaced with sweltering, wet heat.

My breath whooshed from my lungs and caught behind my teeth. My heels dug into his back, knees locking over his shoulders. I looked down to see his mouth on me and my chest burst, the sensation of his tongue circling the sensitive parts of me completely and totally foreign.

My own fingers and hand, I was used to. His were definitely different, but a _mouth—_

"_Fang—_oh, _unh_," I grunted, fingers twisting in his hair, shoving up against his lips, hips coming straight off the bed. His other arm mirrored the first, wrapping around my legs and pulling me back down to the mattress.

I clamped around his ears, trying not to squeeze my knobby knees around his head too hard. It was very, very difficult, and my hips jerked in time with his tongue every time he passed under the hood of my clit.

A bubble of insane pleasure inflated, swelling from the center of my being and expanding, travelling down my thighs and up into my belly with scorching heat.

That same sensation of emptiness that I'd felt the night we'd slept together flared enormously and I seized around nothing. I was throbbing, undulating under his mouth.

His tongue went searching, flattening and sliding down until he found my entrance, nose buried in my wiry curls. I was having a hard time breathing, chest heaving with tiny moans.

"How the _hell_," I gasped, worming my feet under his wings so that I didn't break the bones with my freaking heels. I couldn't finish the sentence.

He kissed the very wet core of me and I mewled helplessly into the air. "I _might_ have looked some things up," he said, breath fanning against me. "Basics, like I said."

Of course he'd looked things up. I laughed and yanked my pillow out from under my head so I could lie flat, tossing it somewhere. "You and your thirst for knowledge, Fang."

He hummed against me, the noise reverberating through to his lips still attached to me. "I'm guessing I'm doing alright then."

"God, yes," I said openly and wriggled closer, if that was even possible. It was kind of ridiculously funny how much I'd flipped between being so nervous about him staring straight at my naked sex to wanting his mouth all over it.

He went right back to it, flat tongue laving from slit to clit and pulling it back between his lips. His head bobbed between my legs, flicking random patterns on me, occasionally grazing his teeth over that pearl of flesh while I tried my hardest to keep quiet.

"Don't stop," I pleaded as he chalked up a pace, watching the muscles in his back flex when he readjusted to palm my ass with one hand. He squeezed and pressed harder with his tongue. I was building quickly now that his pace was consistent and I could feel the bubble swelling, swallowing me, and my hips bucked hard. "Oh, _God_. Don't stop, _please_ don't stop—"

I felt one of his fingers slide down to my sporadically clenching center. There was a second of hesitation, almost like he was asking permission, and I scratched at his scalp lightly, fisting my other hand in my sheets.

He apparently got the message, easing his finger into me slowly. My inner walls clamped around him immediately, and I was forced to let go of the sheets to throw an arm over my face.

He didn't get time to do much of anything with that finger. He'd barely pulled it halfway out of me when I felt the bubble quiver, felt my whole body tighten. It burst when he pushed back in and I collapsed around him, sights and sounds dulling in favor of body-shaking sensations. A wave of ecstasy swept me straight off my feet, then crashed over me again and again. A muffled series of staccato whimpers burst from my lips and streamed into my arm. I abandoned trying to keep my mouth shut, way too taken by him and his lips and his hands.

His finger felt amazing as it rocked into me, drawing my orgasm out longer, but his mouth suddenly felt abrasive and I hooked my fingers under his jaw to pull him away from me. It took me a second to comprehend my legs trembling. I was barely aware of Fang moving out from under me, lowering my legs back down to the mattress and pressing his lips to my knee.

The sound of the rain hitting the window was the first thing to register once I came back down to Earth. Fang's warm hand on my waist was next, and he turned me on my side and into his chest.

I went willingly, enjoying the slowing contractions of my muscles, trying to catch my breath and relaxing into him. His mouth found mine and his lips tasted tart, slightly salty and musky and I realized I was tasting myself on him.

I sighed into his mouth and snuggled closer. "I love you. I love you so much."

"Is that you or your orgasm talking?"

"Both," I groaned as his hand smoothed down my side, over my hip and back up my spine. I looked up at him and smiled. "But seriously. That was…I don't even know what that was."

His kissed my temple. "Good, I hope."

"Better than good," I babbled, shoving my face into his neck. "I don't think I've ever had an orgasm like that."

"What about when we slept together?" he asked, straightening a few feathers I'd managed to squish under me with all my squirming and shifting.

"That was different. That was teamwork. This one was all you," I mumbled drowsily, wondering where I'd find the energy to get up and get the day started. "Did that satisfy your need to ravish me?"

He gave me a teeth-flashing smile. "Do you feel satisfied?"

"Did that sound fake to you?"

Fang copped a feel of my ass and squished our bodies together. "Not even a little bit. Though I wish I'd done that last night, when no one was here."

"I think I was plenty loud enough," I said, blushing hard and praying my arm had muffled things enough.

"I like hearing that what I'm doing is working on you," he said, handsy and mouthing at the space beneath my ear.

"God, we're never going to leave this bed," I groaned, looping my arms around his neck.

"I wish," Fang said. He snagged my earlobe in his teeth and then let it go when I squawked and swiped at him. "But we need to go grocery shopping. Iggy'll throw another fit about his lack of spices if we don't."

"Fine," I said, drawing out the vowel. I didn't move immediately. Instead, I brushed his tousled hair away from his forehead and trailed my fingers down the side of his face. "Best date ever," I told him quietly.

My stomach growled, and I remembered our abandoned dinner. Fang rolled his eyes. "Chinese for breakfast?" he asked, reading my mind, or maybe thinking the same.

"Breakfast of champions," I said with a laugh before rolling out of bed.

* * *

**Weeeeeellll?**

**Date night/morning complete! Please leave your thoughts!**


	12. Volare (T)

**Hey all. I know I didn't get a chapter up last week in Catalyst proper, and that was due to some real life stuff going on. I figured, while I'm editing the chapter to post for tomorrow, I'd give those of you who are subbed to this story something to chew on in the meantime. **

**This would have been the first chapter of Catalyst had I started from the moment Max escaped the School when she was eighteen. It's edited ****to take out the part where she actually meets Spencer, since I ended up writing that as a lost chapter. **

**Essentially, I was going to start here. But detailing three years between this moment, where Max studiously does not think, builds a career, and then finally meets the Flock would have taken one hell of a long time, and not to mention the fact that it starts off on a very difficult note. **

**So I skipped ahead, and I'm using this as a lost chapter, instead. ****Parts of it include mentions of Bane and Parker's relationship, since this is Max processing it for the first time. This is rated borderline T, since there's nothing explicit, but it's still the darker parts of Catalyst that people have yelled at me for, so...**

**Ye be warned. **

* * *

**VOLARE**

**MAX**

Soft.

That was the first thing I felt. Something soft.

My brain was sluggish. Why was I so—

I shot straight up, my hands clutching at the blankets covering my body. Soft.

I flexed my hands—I could move them! But I couldn't see, why couldn't I see—

Where was I? Was I still inside my head? But I could feel, I shouldn't be able to feel, but there were soft blankets covering my legs and in my hand and oh, God was this another experiment?

Without thinking, my hand snapped out to the right. I landed on something cold and hard. A lamp was there, one my muscles had remembered first. Parker's muscles, really. I'd never touched it, not me, not my fingers—

Light flooded the room and I blinked hard, black spots dancing in my vision. I was in Parker's room, at the School. But I was…me?

Everything felt so heavy. The air felt heavy, the blankets felt heavy, my own skin felt heavy and I sucked in a breath that expanded my whole chest—had breathing always felt like this? Had blinking always been so fast?

_Focus. You're out. You're you. But how—_

The dream. I couldn't sleep, not really, not stuck in my head like I'd been, but she could. She could dream and have nightmares and she'd been dreaming about being switched, the fourth time she'd had that nightmare in two weeks, but this time…

This time he'd said the words. And I was me again.

_Get out. _

I flung the blankets off of me and fell straight to the floor. My legs were rubbery, shaking. I hadn't felt my own legs in…how long? How long had I been stuck?

_Oh, God. How long? I can't remember, I don't know the last time I saw a date. Weeks? Months? …years?_

All of Parker's memories were fragments, framed between times I watched and times I didn't. I had no idea how long it had been.

_Get out first. _

I followed my disconnected voice. It wasn't the Voice, not the one I'd heard for years. It was mine, and it kicked in when everything else felt so _wrong_.

_This is your body. Get control of it and _leave.

I scrambled upright, using the bed and then the desk near the door to stagger over to the closet. I pulled it open, looking for something to wear that wasn't this thin shirt that scratched and pulled in ways I wasn't used to. All I found were sundresses.

Were jeans sacrilege or something? What about tactical gear, maybe? No, that stuff was all in the lockers at the Arena.

_You don't have time!_

It felt like stepping into someone else's skin, but I pulled on a sundress and a pair of combat boots and spun back around, my vision swimming with color. I moved too fast. I couldn't remember how fast to turn in my own fucking body.

My eyes found the throwing knives. They were sitting on the nightstand and I almost choked. What was I going to do? I'd killed so many people—

_GET OUT._

I scooped the knives up without thinking. My fingers did the straps on their own, fastening the holster to my thigh and pulling the hem of the dress over them. They were heavier than I thought, but my fingers didn't seem surprised somehow—they knew the weight better than I did, I guess.

I glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was the middle of the night, and there was curfew inside the School, but it wasn't like Parker followed the rules, so maybe no one would stop me.

Please no one stop me.

A black leather jacket sat slung across the back of the desk chair and I grabbed it, shoving my arms through the sleeves. I let my eyes wander the desk, just to make sure there wasn't something there I could use—

The little satin ring box made me freeze. I absently rubbed my finger, finding the empty expanse uncomfortable. At the same time, the memory started creeping up my spine, cold and liquid…

_It's the only thing you have left._

I couldn't leave it. I couldn't. I shoved the box into my pocket and pulled open the door, sticking my head out into the hall first. It was empty and dark, only lit by emergency lights.

I sped down the hall, past Cassava's door, past Aconite's door, past Nightshade's, and nearly tripped when I got to Bane's. Immediately, I wanted to hurl. More than that, I wanted to go in there and slit his goddamn throat.

But I still wasn't used to my own body, and this might be my only chance. She'd tell him the nightmares had caused us to switch if I got caught, and then I wouldn't get a chance like this ever again and then I'd be stuck, watching and hurting and—

_Don't think about it. Don't even think about it. _

I swallowed everything, put every thought into moving my body, and fled.

* * *

Food was…weird. I chewed on the chicken risotto, flavor bursting in my mouth. It couldn't be poisoned, since the guy across from me was wolfing his own portion down, but food felt strange. It mushed around in my mouth, sliding over my tongue. My stomach growled hardcore—apparently, I'd passed out on this guy's doorstep after a pretty major panic attack.

I'd taken off like a rocket and hadn't stopped until it really hit me. I was free. I was alive. But I'd been used so much, in so many different ways. The last thing I remembered was finding a doorstep and forcing myself to breathe, failing spectacularly, and then passing out.

I'd done an outstanding job of keeping everything a secret. This guy already knew I had wings, knew I was running from someone, and I was pretty sure he didn't think I carried around sharpened throwing knives for _fun_.

But he was feeding me, and he wasn't calling the police. Judging by what he'd told me, this Spencer guy couldn't really call the cops, not with all the running he was doing, too.

Well, I was sure whatever he was running from would pale in comparison when he found out what I'd done. He'd be on the phone so fast and I absolutely deserved to be taken in, arrested and charged and—

My stomach rolled again. _Don't think about it, don't think about it, you didn't know what you were doing—_

"So, what brings you to San Diego?" Spencer asked around his fork, glancing up at me with curious hazel eyes. "The last place someone would look?"

I wish. My eyes flashed down to my arm, where the new chip had been inserted. I wanted to dig it out with my fork.

"Uh, no. Just…a place I happened to stop," I muttered.

He bobbed his head, watching me carefully. It felt like he was picking me apart, peeling away all of my layers like an onion. I ducked my head and pressed my fingers hard into the fork. Somehow, it helped.

"Well," Spencer said, slowly tugging his messenger bag towards him. "If it's all the same to you, I have an exam at eight tomorrow morning, and I've done next to no studying, so…_casa mia, casa tua, _I guess."

I had no idea what that meant, but it sounded similar to a Spanish phrase my mom had used once upon a time.

Spencer picked up a heavy-looking text book and piled his plate on top of it. "Just don't steal anything, okay? Not that there's really anything worthwhile to steal, but still."

I raised my eyebrows, but he disappeared into a room just off the kitchen. Music drifted from the half-open door and I slid from the stool at his counter.

He just…trusted me to walk around his apartment? Some girl he'd pulled off the street and was clearly not normal? I still had the throwing knives attached to my thigh for Christ's sake.

Why was I trying to convince myself that I was going to hurt him?

_Probably because you've killed a fuckton of people. _

I grasped for the counter, biting hard on my cheek and whimpering quietly. _Don't think about it, don't think about it, don't think about it._

That seemed to be my new mantra.

I toured Spencer's apartment, listening to the foreign song drift under the doorway. It was soft, half in English, half in another language.

I let it fill my head while I trailed my fingers over the cracked spines of his books. His collection was confusing; some were crime books, others were beat up business and psychology textbooks, and a few were ratty graphic novels. It didn't tell me much about him other than the fact that he definitely bought these all second-hand—if he hadn't stolen them, at least.

There weren't any pictures on the walls. There were paintings and store-bought things, but nothing personal. No family, no friends, just mass-produced things picked up from Big Lots, or something.

My eyes caught a calendar next and I froze in front of it.

I'd been panicking too hard before the offer of food, but now Spencer's words came back to me.

_How about you answer one question. Think of it as payment for keeping your warm during this frigid February night_.

The calendar was turned to February. It hadn't hit earlier, but now it smacked me straight in the face.

February. February _a full year _after I'd first been taken.

I'd been locked away behind Parker for eight months after finally falling to them four months in.

It was a struggle to breathe suddenly. My legs shook incredibly and I snapped my hand out to catch myself on the couch as they buckled.

_Breathe._

_ How!_

I clutched at my stomach and let myself sink to the floor. My head fell between my knees and I couldn't even care that my legs were spread wide in a sundress.

Faces. Dozens of faces, flashing and screaming and whispering, crying out, reaching out, begging me to stop, _why didn't I stop, _why did I kill them?

_What the fuck is happening?_

This wasn't a panic attack, this was something infinitely worse and—

"_Nel blu, depinto di blu,_" Spencer's voice broke through the crazy haze, totally off-key and insanely quiet, but my bird ears picked it up and I clutched at the words like a lifeline. "_Felice di stare lassu. E volavo, volavo felice piu in alto del sole ed ancora piu su. Mentre il mondo pian piano spariva lontano laggiu..."_

The horrible humming and foreign tongue interrupted the mass hysteria in my head, intertwined with picking instruments and singing from the actual artist.

_You're okay. You're okay. _

God, I was so fucked up.

I felt sweaty and so freaking dirty all of the sudden, like all of the time I'd spent as Parker had tainted me physically. All the death, all the blood, all the—

I needed a shower. I needed to feel clean.

I stood on unsteady feet to find that the song was winding down. I knocked on Spencer's door and peered around it. His room was near spotless: bed made, no clothes on the floor—a neat freak, then.

"Need something?" he asked, turning down his music as the song ended.

"Your bathroom, actually," I said, and my voice came out hoarse. I cleared it and pinched the skin between my thumb and forefinger. "I could use a shower."

Spencer's eyes raked down me and back up. Then he shrugged and pointed to his left. "In there. I, uh…I don't exactly have any clothes from past girlfriends or anything, so all I've got are t-shirts and stuff, not really the more..._dressy_ things…"

His eyes trailed to his dresser and then back to what I was wearing.

"Actually, pants would be awesome," I said in relief. "I'm kind of feeling totally exposed here."

Spencer bobbed his head and slid from his bed, digging through his dresser. "I've got a bunch of band t-shirts way too small for me and some sweats with a drawstring so that they don't fall down that skinny waist of yours. Those cool?"

"Yeah, sure," I said, trailing further into his bedroom and taking a look around. A bunch of bottle caps sat on a long desk, arranged into a half-completed mosaic. "You the crafty type?"

Spencer glanced at his desk while he slammed a drawer shut and yanked open another one. "Not usually, no. I work at a bar and I'm drowning in bottle caps, I swear. Dino there practically begged me to create him from the tiny hats of beer bottles."

The small laugh that came out of my mouth surprised me. "Dino?"

"Dean Martin?" he said, handing me the clothing. I gave him a blank look. "King of Cool? Martin and Lewis? Nothing? _Really?_"

I shrugged. "Sorry?"

He sighed dramatically. "What rock have you been living under?"

_A very, very dark one. _

Spencer popped open his bathroom door and turned on the light, then gestured me in. "He's a singer, comedian, actor, take your pick. One of my favorites. I was just playing a song of his. 'Volare'."

"Parts of it were in English," I commented, moving past him and dropping the clothes on the bathroom counter. It was just as tidy in here as it was the rest of his apartment. "The other parts though—"

"Italian," he filled in for me, leaning against the door and smiling at me. "Did you like it?"

"All except for your horrible warbling," I muttered before I could stop myself. But Spencer just laughed. "I thought it was Spanish at first."

"Close," he said, then jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "I'm studying Spanish now. It's got a lot of similarities to Italian, and I'm already fluent in that."

"Handy if we run into the mafia then," I said, then turned towards the tub. Spencer made a funny noise and choked on a cough.

"I'll…uh…I need to get back to studying," he said and shut the bathroom door. I stared at it for a second in surprise before shaking my head. I nabbed the shirt, hoped Spencer wasn't too attached to it, and ripped haphazard slits in the back for my wings.

He said they were too small for him anyway, and it wasn't like I was planning on sticking around.

I turned on the shower, then pulled off my jacket. I glanced in the mirror and froze.

I wasn't thin, like I expected. I looked nourished, something that never happened when I'd been in the School for more than a few days. I always came out a few pounds lighter, but this time, I looked healthy.

But there were marks _everywhere_. Scars crisscrossing up my arms, over my collarbones, down my legs, some less than an inch, some longer than my palm. Some were deeper than others, all shiny and barely visible, but definitely there, definitely new.

_They're just scars. You already have a bunch, what's a dozen more?_

It would take a while to get used to, that was for sure. I knew most were from training with the knives, but I didn't know they'd become so permanent.

I let the jacket fall to the floor and yanked off the combat boots, then reached back to unzip the sundress. I slid the straps from my shoulders and let the dress fall to pool around my feet.

As it turned out, the scars were nothing.

Bruises. Not just any bruises, but _hickeys_, teeth marks, finger-shaped bruises on my hips and breasts.

From Bane.

_It wasn't happening,_ I tried to tell myself, the thing I'd been saying for months. _It wasn't happening to me, he was…he was doing that with her, not me, not me, notmenotme!_

It didn't help this time. This time I couldn't duck away, I couldn't pretend and think of happier memories, I couldn't shut down.

I'd been kidnapped, experimented on, tortured, changed into a killer, and—

And my Alter had been sleeping with my worst nightmare. He'd touched me. He'd kissed me, palmed at me, mouthed at skin that wasn't his to go near, and my Alter had returned the favor—

I couldn't ignore it anymore, and I snatched for a towel, wrapping it around myself to block out the marks. I sunk to the floor, hugging my arms around my knees and biting down on my own skin. I'd screamed inside my head, yelling no, shouting at Parker to stop, at Bane to just _stop_ but she said yes and it was still _me, _still _my body._

I was thrown so far back in my head that I couldn't even tell I'd ever been free. I went right back to that horrible place, to the armory when it first happened, and then to all the times I'd had the misfortune to check in during the wrong times, all of it flashing and blinking in and out of my head like a strobe light and _oh, God, it's happening again, what is this, what's—_

I managed to find the toilet and I hurled, heaving so hard that I thought my lungs were coming up, too. The noise of the shower and Spencer's soft music covered all my gagging and choking, but it did nothing to stop the car crash of pain slamming into my ribs.

My breath was nonexistent, my head was spinning, I couldn't feel my own skin and I was gone, gone, gone.

I heard knocking distantly, but I was just trying so hard to feel the tile floor under my palms—was it cold? Dirty? Were the tiles hexagonal or square? My vision was swimming too much to figure it out with my eyes, but I couldn't _feel them_ and all I could see was Bane's ceiling, a glimpse of dark hair out of the corner of my eye, my hands gripping broad, bare shoulders—

"Whoa, hey," a masculine voice said in my ear and I flinched hard, clutching at my towel.

I gasped for breath and reared back, shoving up onto my feet. "Don't touch me!"

"Okay! Okay, I won't, just…sit down, or something, okay? You're gonna pass out."

My legs were about to give out anyway so I really didn't have any choice but to listen. I dropped to the floor. I heard a clattering sound and it took me a second to realize that it was my teeth. I was shivering, chattering them together and I clenched my jaw to stop, but it didn't help.

"Max? Okay, look I don't know what happened, but your face probably shouldn't be that red. I…I think you're having a panic attack," the voice said, and I squeezed my eyes shut before I could puke again. I didn't know who the voice was, I didn't know _where _I was, just that I was naked in a towel, and there was a guy trying to talk to me, and that this was _not _a regular old panic attack. "_Cazzo_, what was it that…"

I heard feet scurry off and I ducked my head to my knees, trying my hardest to keep myself covered and shut away. I couldn't shut Bane out, I couldn't stop seeing his hands on me—

_Stop, stop, stop!_

Where was that voice in my head that was helping me before? Where was the one that kept telling me to leave inside the School? Why couldn't it make this stop, why couldn't it just _STOP._

"Okay," that male voice came again, stumbling back into the bathroom. "Okay, do you know where you are? Can you talk to me?"

I tried to pry my mouth open but I couldn't so I just shook my head. I focused on the voice in front of me, it was so different than the swirling images of the armory, of Bane's bedroom—

"I'm Spencer, remember?" the voice said, and part of it clicked. He was the Italian guy, all lanky legs and perfect hair. He'd fed me, he knew about the wings already.

"You're in my apartment. My bathroom, more specifically. On the floor. In a towel. Uh…"

"Can't breathe," I managed to get out.

"Believe me, you're breathing. The problem is you're hyperventilating," he said, flipping what sounded like pages in a book. "Alright, we're gonna count, okay? We're gonna count to two and inhale. Don't exhale, not until we count to two again."

For some reason, I went with it. It was that or passing out, and I really didn't want to do that naked on his bathroom floor.

I couldn't get out any numbers, but he could, so I just inhaled every time he got to two, and then exhaled as he counted to two again. He raised it to four, then six, and eventually we got to ten with slow, measured breaths.

The cool floor finally registered on the bottom of my feet. I didn't want to open my eyes, because my stomach was thrashing around and if the room was still spinning, I'd puke up all that chicken risotto, but I did anyway.

Hexagonal. The floor tiles were hexagonal and off-white. Clean. Old and cracked, but clean.

My head was pounding and I felt like I could sleep for a billion years, but I'd somehow made it through whatever that was with all limbs intact.

"What happened?" Spencer asked, and I pulled on the towel more, hoping to God he couldn't see the telling marks hidden under the cloth. "I mean, I think panic attack, but—"

"I don't know," I managed to croak through dry lips into my lap. Spencer wasn't here to hurt me. He hadn't hurt me yet, and I trusted him just a tad more than any other random stranger, but not enough to just…spill my secrets. "Not a panic attack. Turned into a panic attack, but not…"

The sound of pages flipping in a book came again and Spencer muttered something under his breath. "Have you ever had anything like this before?"

I shook my head again. Whatever that had been, the images I couldn't stop, the horrible, _real _sounds that felt like a waking nightmare…

I'd never had that before. Ever.

"Max…what happened to you?" Spencer asked carefully. "I don't mean right now, but I mean…where were you before you came here?"

I clammed up immediately, throwing up defensive shields. "It doesn't matter. I'm not there anymore."

"I know that, but—"

I pulled my head from my knees to find concerned eyes. "It's none of your business, and I don't want to talk about it," I said firmly. "I'll be out of your hair as soon as I take my shower, I promise."

Spencer pursed his lips. "It's…I'm not trying to push you or anything. You don't have to tell me, and I'm not kicking you out, either. I'm just…worried."

"You don't even know me," I spat, standing and pressing my palm to the wall as I did. My legs felt like jelly, wobbly and not nearly solid enough to hold up my weight. "What do you care?"

"You're still a person," he said dryly from the floor. "Or, well…at least part person, part bird." I ignored him. He shut the binder he had in front of him and stood. "But if that wasn't a panic attack, then I'm thinking a flashback, if my psych notes are right."

A flashback. Flashing back to what had happened. Slipping into my memories in the most real way…

I was no stranger to PTSD. With my childhood, it wasn't uncommon. Everyone in the Flock suffered from it, some of us more severely than others.

But that had always resulted in nightmares and shoved down memories, sometimes explosive behavior. Paranoid 360s, extreme vigilance, light sleeping, so on.

Flashbacks were new territory for me.

When I didn't answer him, his entire posture changed. "Look, I'm gonna move my study crap into the living room. You can pass out in my bed for a few hours, 'cause I'm not using it tonight. Or you can take off, whatever. But I'm not judging you, and if you don't want me to ask, I won't."

He didn't wait for me to respond. He left the bathroom and shut the door behind him.

The last time I had stayed in someone's house, they'd died. I'd tried to keep them alive, that older couple in Seattle, but the School was no longer fucking around.

Clearly. They'd had me killing people for them. And torture was on the menu.

I shuddered and dropped my towel, refusing to look down at my body as I stepped into the shower. As much as I wanted to soak for hours, I couldn't stand being naked.

I fully planned to just throw on the spare clothes Spencer had provided, toss the sundress, and take off as soon as I stepped out of the shower.

What happened instead was that my episode on the floor drained everything in me. I went from scrubbing my hair quickly to struggling to keep my eyes open. I nearly tripped over the edge of the bathtub when I tried to get out. Lifting my legs high enough to get them into the sweatpants felt like an Olympic workout, and by the time I pulled open the door to Spencer's bedroom, his bed looked like the most inviting thing in the world.

Parker had only been asleep for a couple hours, and I pretty much felt like I'd end up on another doorstep completely unconscious any second. And who knew if the next person who found a shivering pile of completely useless girl would be so helpful and nice.

So I collapsed into Spencer's bed, wrapped my wings around me, and pulled the blankets around those like some kind of shield.

_Just a few hours, _I told myself, hugging my arms around me and shutting out the world. _Just a few hours, and then I'll leave, and I can forget what happened to me. I can forget what I did and everything will be fine. I'll be fine._

* * *

I slept way more than a few hours.

The only reason I woke up was because the smell of something insanely delicious clogged my sinuses and made my stomach practically eat itself.

My eyes snapped open and there was Spencer, baggy-eyed and holding a grease-stained paper bag from In-N-Out. "Hungry?"

I'd forgotten what fast food smelled like. "Is that a hamburger?"

"Yup," he said with his mouth full, waving an unwrapped, partially eaten burger in his hand. "Cheap and bad for me, but a burger all the same. I didn't know what you wanted, so I just got a cheeseburger and a Coke."

I sat up, letting my stiff wings unfurl from around me. Spencer choked on his burger. "_Merda_, I forgot about those."

I took the paper bag and raised an eyebrow. "You forgot I had wings?"

"They're shocking, okay?" he said, dropping his messenger bag and flopping into his desk chair. "And huge. And I haven't had sleep yet, so I might have thought I imagined them."

I folded my wings back behind me and climbed out of the bed. "Sorry. I meant to leave when the sun came up."

I stole into the bathroom and grabbed Parker's combat boots, tugging up the bottom of the sweatpants so I could shove my feet into the worn shoes.

"I wasn't saying that to make you feel bad," Spencer called. "And I said I wasn't kicking you out."

"Do you want to end up dead?" I muttered under my breath, scooping up the knives I'd so ignorantly left in the bathroom. Louder, so he could hear me, I said, "I try not to stay in one place for long."

"Story of my life."

I paused and stuck my head out of the doorway. "Okay, really. Who's chasing you?"

Spencer turned his head, pinching what was left of his burger between two fingers and rubbing his other hand on a napkin. "Who's chasing _you_?"

I narrowed my eyes. "Fine. I won't ask if you don't."

"I already said I wouldn't last night."

"Don't remind me of last night," I growled, grabbing the leather jacket. I checked the pocket and was relieved the ring box was still inside. For some reason, that calmed me down just a little.

Spencer raised a hand in surrender. "But seriously, I'm not kicking you out. If you need a place to stay, you can stay here. I need someone to help cover the rent anyway. There's another bedroom I can't afford to have, but I don't trust anyone enough to know where I sleep."

I crossed my arms, clutching the fast food in one hand and wishing I could just tear into it. I seriously couldn't believe how much I'd missed how a burger smelled.

"You've known me for less than a day," I said, holding up a hand so I could tick off my offensives on my fingers. "In that time, I've passed out on your doorstep, attacked you, eaten your food, completely lost my mind, and taken your bed. And now you've brought me breakfast."

"Dinner, technically. It's seven."

I rolled my eyes. "Add spending the entire day in your apartment to the list then."

Spencer considered me, balling up the plastic wrapper from his burger in his hand. "I don't have friends. I can't have friends, because I can't trust anyone." He tossed the ball into a trashcan near his feet and sighed. "Last night, when you attacked me, I saw your face. You weren't attacking me out of anything but fear for yourself. You're always watching your back, always too afraid to let people in. Because you know, as soon as you do, then you're vulnerable."

I curled my fingers around the fast food bag tighter. One of the only perks of being alone, without my Flock, was that I didn't have to make decisions for anyone but myself. I couldn't hurt them by being selfish, because I was only looking after number one.

But it was so freaking lonely.

"You and I both know what it's like to live like that," Spencer said, propping his feet up on the frame of his bed. "And it's shit, but a little part of us knows we deserve it, because we put ourselves here. We fucked up, and now we gotta live like this, because otherwise, people get hurt." He spread his hands and shrugged. "So why not join forces? We both know the risks."

I wanted to say no. I wanted to march out of his apartment and out of his life, take to the skies, return to my solitude, and hope that what I'd done didn't swallow me whole.

A bigger part of me wondered if I was even strong enough to turn on my heel and start moving. Physically, I was in near-perfect condition. I was fit, I was generally healthy, I could probably run a few marathons no problem.

But my head wasn't all there. What would have happened if Spencer hadn't been there to talk me out of what had happened last night? If I'd gone to gas station bathroom to wash off and found...what I'd found, I very well could have just ended up attacking the nearest person. I could have been found by some underpaid attendant, a babbling mess, who would have discovered my wings and called the FBI or something.

And then I'd be right back in the hands of the School.

Of Bane.

I inhaled sharply and shivered. "Give me a flaw."

Spencer raised his eyebrows. "A flaw?"

I nodded. "Clearly, I'm fucked up. With the wings and the crazy puddle I melted into on your bathroom floor, I'm not exactly gold-star roommate material. So why should I stay? Why would you want me? What makes you so messed up that you want me here?"

Spencer pursed his lips. "I can't eat gluten. That burger is gonna kick my ass in a few hours."

I scowled at him. "I'm serious."

He cracked a humorless smile. "I know. But I'm afraid you'll run out on me."

"I'm running out on you if you don't give me something anyway. You have nothing to lose. It's not like I can call the cops on you, I'm not exactly a witness that tends to stick around," I told him.

He looked down at his dark pants. He flicked an invisible piece of lint from them and glanced back up at me, then finally nodded. "I know something that can make this world better for a lot of people. A whole city of people. But because I'm scared I'll end up in prison or dead in cement shoes, I choose to be selfish. I choose not to tell."

My wings twitched against my back and I looked down at my toes. The same was true for me. I could tell. I could tell the whole world about my wings, and about what the School did. What the School made me do.

But I chose not to. Because I was selfish, and because I was afraid.

I raised my eyes to Spencer's again. "Okay."

* * *

**Review?**


	13. Naked, Redux (M)

**Here it is, as promised. Thanks so much for all the reviews here, and on Catalyst proper. Unbeta'd, very M.**

**Enjoy.**

**For those reading out of sequence, context: Max and Fang's successful attempt at sex inside Jackson's bunker. **

* * *

**NAKED, REDUX**

**MAX**

"_Fang." I interrupted him, trying to stop his concern for me in its tracks. I looked him square in the eye, all me, completely focused on him. "Please make love to me."_

_It was like my words shorted his brain out. He blinked at me, beautiful lips parted, brows just slightly raised. His eyes softened incredibly._

"_Okay," he whispered after a few seconds. "Okay," he said again, cupping my face in his hands and kissing me like he meant it, like nothing mattered but the two of us._

I spread my fingers across his chest and plastered him to the wall. He tilted his head and worked my mouth open, smoothing his thumbs across my cheeks, down my jaw, tangling his fingers in my hair.

My hands found the lapels of his jacket and I pulled it off his shoulders. He let go of me long enough to help me, tugging the sleeves off his arms and abandoning it on the floor.

"You're wearing a heck of a lot more clothing than I am," I said, conscious of my thin pajamas in comparison to his layers of street clothes. I scrunched his shirt up his sides while he kicked out of his shoes and he raised his arms so I could get him topless.

He didn't respond, choosing instead to take my mouth again. I balled his shirt up and tossed it near our bag of clothes. He reached down and grabbed the backs of my thighs, hoisting me up and turning us to press my back into the wall.

I wrapped my legs around him and gripped his shoulders, digging my fingernails into him and ignoring the way my busted knuckle ached. It felt like nothing in comparison to the heat of his mouth, the press of his body into mine, his fingers around my thighs. I could feel how much he wanted me through his goddamn _jeans_ and I sighed into his mouth.

I thumped my head against the wall and Fang took advantage of my exposed neck, kissing a line up my throat before pulling an earlobe into his mouth. He said something low, but it was into my bad ear, the one I'd damaged in the explosions.

"Can't hear you outta that one," I said, my breath coming out in a puff. He switched sides, gripping me tighter.

"I said I'm going to take my time with you," he repeated, moving his hands up my thighs to cup my ass and my heart leapt in my chest. "I don't care if we don't get a wink of sleep, I'm taking this slow."

"Okay," I breathed, not protesting in the slightest. He squeezed my flesh in his hands and I practically strangled his sides with my legs. Everything downstairs got just a little warmer and I reached down between us to weasel out of my shirt. I chucked it over his head and he went right towards my breasts, scorching mouth closing on the swell of one.

"We gotta be quiet," I told him, scratching at his scalp and biting down on my lip when he pulled some skin between his teeth. "God, I don't want to be quiet."

"We'll have another date night," he promised, peeling me away from the wall and stepping backwards towards the bed. "And we'll take full advantage of the empty house this time."

I breathed a laugh. "Sounds like a plan."

He moved a hand to my back and lowered me to the bed. The springs squeaked a little, and internally I wondered how much of a problem those were going to be. I snuck my hands down between us again, tugging open his belt and popping the metal button on his jeans.

My hands brushed against him when I pulled down his zipper and he sucked hard on the skin just under my jaw. A shiver of pleasure whizzed down my spine and I fumbled with his pants, curling my fingers into the waistband.

Without much thought to the consequences, I slid my hand straight into his jeans, palming him through his boxers.

His hips twitched forward and a broken groan spread across my skin. I could feel his heat through the cotton and I let my fingers explore the outline of him. I glanced up, going back to that moment in the bathtub, when I'd wanted to see his face with my hand on him.

His brows were furrowed, pulling together to form a line between his eyes before he leaned down to kiss me so, so gently. He didn't nip at my lips or slide his tongue against mine—it was just a simple, easy press of his mouth to mine and I breathed him in, his shudders of pleasure, his unfamiliar shampoo, his wandering fingers playing at the hem of my sleep shorts.

I reached into the flap in the front of his boxers, trying to pull up what I remembered from our date as I took him in my hand and pulled him free. There was no lubricant of any kind this time, and I moved slowly at first. His skin shifted, firming further under my hand and his fingers wrapped around my thigh.

"Little tighter," he said, his voice low with a growl and I followed his instruction, closing my hand around him a bit more. His jeans were starting to get in my way and I used my other hand to push them down over his hips. He kicked out of them somehow and let them crumple to the floor, and then he hooked his arms between my back and my wings, hands spread across my shoulder blades.

His hips came loose and he just let go, mindlessly rutting into my hand. I kept up with him, running my free hand through his hair. A rumble went through his chest and he pressed an open-mouthed kiss to my shoulder.

"You're so warm," he said into my neck, pushing into my hand further with a jerk of his hips. I _felt_ warm, so incredibly warm, both from all of his body heat lying on top of me and the wonderful way I was heating up because of him in other ways.

He pulled back from me, tucking his fingers into my shorts and underwear. I let go of him, lifting my hips so he could drag everything off me.

Fang dropped my clothes over the side of the bed before bending over me, attaching his mouth to my stomach, his hands to my sides. He kissed and licked and nipped and trailed his lips and fingers up my front, attacking the sensitive skin of my chest and pressing us together, moving his hips against mine. He was still in his boxers but I'd pulled him out, and his firm cock dragged up my sensitive, wet folds.

"I love you. God, I love you so much, Max," he said, lips seeking the hollow of my throat, my collarbones, the swell of my breast again, cupped in his hand. He wrapped his mouth around my perked nipple, tongue circling and flicking in time with his hips and _oh, unh—_

My mouth fell open, chin tipped towards the ceiling. _I love you, I love you, I love you. _I felt cracked open, pieces of me spilling between us onto the sheets, totally exposed. My legs trembled where they trapped his sides and his hand went down one, smoothing over my thigh.

"You're shaking," he whispered, pausing and pulling back to search my face.

I shook my head and pressed my hands to his cheeks, brushing my thumbs over his jawline and locking my ankles behind him again. "It's good shaking. I'm good, I'm _really_ good, I promise."

He peered down at me, and the concern was back, as well as something else that I couldn't quite read. "I just…I really don't want to mess this up."

_He's nervous._

Ordinarily, that would be shocking. Fang never admitted he was nervous about anything, ever. He either does something, or he doesn't, and he doesn't share his thoughts on the matter.

But we both knew this was something different altogether.

"You won't," I tried to assure him, squeezing his bicep. He swallowed thickly and I dropped my legs, pushing against his chest to roll him onto his back. "You know what I like. You know what keeps me here. We can do this," I told him, mouthing at his jaw, pressing my hands against his lean chest. I moved down, finding his sternum with my lips.

He smoothed a hand through my hair, a little tense, a little taut. He needed to relax. He spent a lot of time helping me loosen up, learning parts of me that calmed me down or kept me in the moment.

I glanced down at his leaning member, running my fingers up the side of the shaft and watching it twitch as I did. "I'm gonna try something," I said, looking at him from under my eyelashes and trying not to flush. "It's another first."

He nodded slowly, watching me shift on top of him. He'd done this for me just a little bit ago, seemingly without hesitation. I just really, really didn't want to make a fool out of myself or something.

"These need to come off," I told him, tugging at his boxers. He pushed them over his hips and I dragged them the rest of the way off. I kissed the skin of his hip, impossibly soft at the 'V' where his pelvis dipped.

Fang seemed to figure out what I was planning. He mumbled something that sounded like _oh shit_ and then he dropped his head against the mattress.

Well, good. I wasn't totally failing yet.

_Start small_, I told myself, sliding off the low-framed bed to kneel on the ground between his knees. The floor was _ridiculously_ cold, so I snatched at his jeans and stuffed them under my knees before lying my palms flat on his strong thighs.

This was as close as my face had ever been to his entire package before, and my eyes took in the smooth, veined skin of his shaft, the leaking, dark red head, the short, curling black hairs at the base of his dick.

I sucked in a quick breath, nervous as all hell myself, and then pressed my lips to the head of him. Everything down here seemed to move with a mind of its own sometimes, shifting and jerking in response to my hand and my mouth.

I kissed down the side of him, taking my time. He smelled strongly of his own cinnamon scent down here, earthy and clean but _musky_ in a way that was an undeniable turn-on. I passed my thumb over his tip, spreading the sticky bead of precome around the head while I made my way down to his wiry pubic hair and all the way back up.

He was either frozen in pleasure or with nerves, unmoving and completely silent on the bed. I tried to ignore the _you're fucking it up _message running through my head and instead just wrapped my lips around the head of his cock.

What I've learned so far about Fang during our private moments is that he's not nearly as vocal as I am. Which, to be fair, is a hard comparison. But I could still feel in the way he moved or the tiny, minute grunts and groans that he was enjoying things.

Except for now, when he was so, so silent.

I had no idea what to do. I knew what to do with my hands, but a mouth is a completely different tool. I slid down a couple of inches and then took the rest of him in my hand. I bobbed slowly, probably slower than he needed, feeling totally discouraged when the only thing I got was radio silence.

"Is this alright?" I asked, pulling away from him after several long moments, stroking his wetted skin with my hand because at least I know how he liked _that_ done.

"Only thing you've done wrong so far is stop," he said, and a little bit of confidence came back. He lifted his head and looked down at me.

"You're just…" I paused and he pulled up onto his elbows, waiting. "I don't know what I'm doing and I want to help you relax, and I don't know if you're enjoying it."

"Trust me, I'm enjoying it."

I frowned, wondering then why he was so _quiet_. We were in a bunker surrounded by people, yeah, but still. "Is there something you want me to do that will make it even better?" I asked, tugging purposefully on him with my hand. "Like you showed me for this?"

"Exactly how many blowjobs do you think I've had?" he asked, a little amused. He sat up, smoothing his hand through my hair again and pulling it all over one shoulder. "I didn't know what you liked, either. I just…paid attention. Watched what made you curl your toes or bite your lip." He brushed his thumb over my lip.

Oh. _Right_.

"Alrighty then," I said, taking a breath. "Experimenting time."

I fell back on what felt right and paid special attention to the way the muscles of his thighs and abdomen tensed and released under my hands, how his breath faltered or caught.

It wasn't until I got a little experimental with my tongue, dragging a line up the underside of his shaft with him inside my mouth that his hand—still in my hair—fisted and a groan left him.

"_That_," he breathed, and I glanced up at him without letting go. He was completely unguarded, the picture of unadulterated pleasure, and the muscles in his jaw jumped as he smothered his groan with squeezed-shut eyes. "Do that again."

I did, completely emboldened and filled with pride. Seeing him so exposed and absorbed when he generally kept such a tight composure sent all sorts of warm feelings though me. I grinned around him and bobbed my head a little faster, tracing my tongue up him and around his head every time I pulled back.

My enthusiasm might have been a little too much for him, because he curled shaky fingers under my chin and pulled me off him. "As much as I'd love for you to keep going," he said, breathing heavily, "I'm not gonna last much longer."

"So?" I asked, giving him a slow, torturous stroke with my hand.

"There is such a thing as a refractory period, Max," he pushed out, his hips twitching towards me anyway.

"You said we're taking our time tonight," I said, not letting up with my hand. "Maybe you can find something else to do with me while we wait."

He made a noise that sounded like a cross between a growl and a groan and I pulled out of his hands. I pressed a palm to his chest and pushed him flat onto his back.

"Just warn me, yeah?" I said, running my hands over his thighs. He nodded and I went right back to what I'd been doing.

My goal had been to relax him, and it was definitely working. He seemed to forget completely about his worries, losing all rigidity except for in the part of him I was paying quite a bit of attention to.

I reached down while I was at it, tentatively pressing my fingertips against his testicles and marveling at how soft the skin was there, too. I was so used to him being calloused and scarred, not really _soft_.

I cupped him in my free hand, trying to be gentle. Lord knew I'd kicked many individuals of the male persuasion down there enough times to know things were sensitive. A small shudder went through his body, so I chalked it up as something good to touch for future fun times.

He hadn't been lying though. I'd already been down on him for a little while, trying different things and learning _him_, so it wasn't much longer before he curled his hand around my arm.

"Max," he said, pushing my name out between gritted teeth. He tapped my arm once, seemingly incapable of forming other words.

I knew I didn't have long to decide whether or not to pull away. We were going to ruin the sheets at some point anyway, but at the same time—

I waited too long. He loosed in my mouth with a soft grunt, warm and slightly salty and I froze in surprise. I swallowed without thinking, barely avoiding closing my teeth around him with what I was sure was a very attractive series of gags and coughs.

It wasn't exactly the best tasting thing in the world, but Fang turned into jelly under me and swore softly so I couldn't help but grin a little. Before I could even pull myself completely together, he sat up and kissed me hard. After a second, he drew back and made a face. "You taste better than I do."

I flushed bright red. "Uh—" I grasped for words, but nothing came out.

He pulled me up from the floor and into his lap. "You're incredible, you know that?"

I rolled my eyes. "I had no idea what—"

"Doesn't make a difference to him, apparently," he interrupted, his eyes flicking down to his lap and back up to my face. He turned us, gripping my waist and moving us up the bed. He settled me under him on the pillows. "Didn't make a difference to you a few days ago. Clearly, we both did something right."

I went to respond but whatever remark I had on my lips died when his hand slid down between us to cup me intimately.

"We're only going to get better," he said, watching me as I tried to find words. My legs fell open further. "The more we practice, that is."

"Right," I said, half paying attention. I closed my eyes and let him do what he wanted with me. "Practice."

He made his way down my body with his mouth while his hand stayed infuriatingly still. He was all over my thighs and my pelvis, kissing everywhere but where I wanted him most. His mouth kept circling close, passing lightly over me for seconds before moving away again.

"You're teasing me," I realized, pushing my fingers into his hair and trying hard not to squeeze my legs around him too tight. "Seriously?"

He grinned against my skin. "You never said _what_ to do with you while we waited."

I tugged at his hair in response. "I should have—_oh, God._" His mouth found me suddenly and I turned my head, managing to smother my groan into a pillow. Fang had a mind like a steel trap and he definitely remembered which parts of our date morning I'd liked best. I pressed my toes into the mattress with a soft grunt as he laved the tip of his tongue over that bundle of nerves, his chin pressing into my slippery center.

The desire for him was so, so strong. His scruffy cheeks against my thighs, his fingers spread out across the backs of my legs, the wet sounds of his tongue lapping at me—it all combined to send me into a state of bliss I could barely even define.

It increased tenfold when his tongue searched lower, slipping _inside me_ briefly before flattening and travelling up again, paying attention to all the different parts of me. He pulled the little fleshy button between his lips and worked it relentlessly.

That need to be _filled_ flared sharply and I whimpered. I couldn't stand it anymore, couldn't stand only having his mouth and his hands and I wanted _him_. I hooked my hand under his jaw and another around his arm, urging him up my body.

"Kiss me," I demanded. He crashed to me and I invaded his mouth, sliding my tongue over the smooth surface of his teeth and tasting my arousal on his lips. His hand moved down to my ass, tilting my moving hips to slot them closer together with his.

My entire body clenched and my thighs held him as he returned my movements. I was way too wound up to stop, and my chest filled with desperation and absolute need.

"Oh, Fang," I moaned shamelessly, totally overcome. I grasped at him harder, ripping my mouth from his and pulling him chest to chest with me. I was absolutely trembling around him, holding him so hard it hurt. My body ached, heat rushing from the very core of my being down to my curled toes. _Oh, please—_

Fang grabbed the pillow I'd been using as a silencer and shoved it down under my hips to keep them propped up. He freed his hands, using one to keep him from dropping all his weight on me and the other to palm a breast.

My skin tingled all over, prickly and hyperaware. He kneaded the flesh of my breast with eager fingertips. I didn't even try to hold back the sounds he pulled from me, crying out straight in his ear.

He growled, a guttural, absolutely primal sound and took my mouth again, barely kissing me. It was more a hard press of lips to keep me from waking the whole damn bunker and he rolled my nipple between his fingers. I bucked, noises escaping from my nose.

"I want you," I said against his mouth, breathy and fervent to my own ears, feeling his cock firm up against me. My hands snuck to his ass, squeezing taut muscle. "I need you."

He was breathing so hard, as hard as me, and his eyes were nearly pitch black, his pupils blown so wide I could barely see where they stopped and his irises began. He covered me completely, wrapping corded arms under my shoulders.

"I've wanted you for years," he said lowly, a confession whispered against my skin. "Learning you, learning what turns you on and what makes you go is one of my favorite things."

He pressed up high, a simulated deep thrust and I bit my lip, a small, high-pitched moan leaking through my teeth.

"I like seeing you squirm under me. I like how your hips come off the bed when I've got you between my lips," he said, right in my good ear. "I love tasting you, plunging my tongue in you and knowing I made you that wet."

I could almost _feel_ it, I was that into him. It helped that he'd been down there just moments before, licking and teasing and nibbling the intimate bits of me.

"I want to make you feel amazing," he said, his voice rumbling around in my head. My fingers pressed hard into his ass and my heart went soaring.

"Please," I pleaded, kissing all up and down his neck, over his shoulder. I felt almost dizzy, light-headed with desire.

He lined my cheekbones with sticky kisses. He unwound an arm from around me and wriggled his hand down, dipping between my swollen lips. The pads of his fingers found my center and he stroked me once, coating his digits with my arousal.

He cursed again and breathed deep, rubbing his nose against mine. He took himself in his hand and my nerves danced under his dragging tip, jumping and writhing in outrageous anticipation.

He lined himself up, fitting his cock at my entrance. "Last check," he said, thumb grazing my wiry curls. "Just to make sure."

I nodded at him. "Yes. Now shut up and make me feel amazing," I said. He chuckled and kissed me softly. He pushed forward, slipping just into me when I remembered.

"Oh, shit, wait," I said, snapping a hand to his stomach. I felt him tense all over, like he usually did when he accidentally sent me spiraling elsewhere in my head. He pulled out immediately and I locked my ankles again before he could get too far. "No, it's not—" I looked up at him, trying to smooth away his concern with a sheepish grin.

I turned my head and spotted the plastic pharmacy bag, catching it in my fingers and dragging it to us. I shook the box of condoms free and held it up to his nose. "I just meant hold on, so we can get one of these on you."

He looked down at the box. "Right," he said, flipping it around and peering at the back in the semi-darkness. "Fair warning, I didn't research these much outside of effectiveness."

"You bought the most recommended 'safe' brand, didn't you?" I teased. He just rolled his eyes at me. I took the box back and tore it open, making a face at the same time. "We're in luck. I did look at…_directions_. It was either that or a date with Spencer and a banana, so…"

Fang gave me the most _what the fuck _face I'd ever seen on him and I laughed. "He realized I didn't exactly have sex-ed as a kid, so he threatened to make me practice on a banana. I just read the packet in the box at home instead."

He shook his head. "I swear, he comes up nine times out of ten when we're in bed together."

I ripped open the foil packet of the condom and snorted. "Yeah, well that's just because he tends to be the most experienced out of everyone we know. He's just looking out for us."

Fang accepted that with a nod. I showed him the latex sheath in its rolled-up glory, dropping my legs so I could slide my hands between us. I made sure he paid attention while I pinched the little reservoir tip and rolled the condom on him. "See? Easy-peasy."

His hips shifted. "Let's just hope it doesn't break."

I knew what he was thinking. The unknown chances of pregnancy, and the potential risks if my body couldn't handle a child...I shook my head out and focused back on the now.

"If it does, then there's Plan B," I said, pulling my hair out from under me with one hand and stroking my lubricated, latex-covered boyfriend with the other. "Literal Plan B. It's emergency contraception, in case of that sort of situation."

"Right," he said again, eyes closing as I worked my hand on him. "Looked that up, too."

I looked up at him, wiping my hand on the sheets near my hip and grasping his arms. "We'll be okay. And we'll figure out if we can have a family one day. I promise. But right now…"

He pressed his forehead to mine. "Right now, I'm going to make love to you."

He had no idea how much those words excited me. My entire mind was on him, every fiber of my being. I felt like I was going to explode, so full of affection and anticipation that I couldn't possibly hope to wind down any time soon.

Fang cupped a hand behind my neck and kissed me. He moved between us again, wrapping a hand around himself. Very, very gently, he eased himself into me.

That stretched-out feeling washed over me again, just like the last time we'd been together. But this time, I didn't tense up. I didn't accidentally impede his progress forward, or freak out about first times internally, or anything. I just simply let him fill me, his cock pushing further and further in until his pelvis met mine.

I clenched around him once as he settled, somehow whole, even before the actual movements and gyrations and pulse-pounding ecstasy.

That content noise happened from him again, too. It was deep and rumbling, right at the base of his throat.

"_Jesus,_" he said under his breath. "It's…different with a condom. Less sensitive. But you still feel fucking fantastic."

"Shoulda gotten those thin ones," I said, blushing anyway with his comments. It wasn't _new_ but every time he said something like that—dirty, just for me—I just couldn't help but feel so, so turned on.

"Might be a good thing that it's less sensitive for now," he grunted. I arched into him, watching his face, the line forming between his squeezed-shut eyes, and he breathed out shakily.

His lips smashed against mine as he pulled back, taking his time. He thrust back into me, grinding softly into my clit, reaching inside me and stroking my balmy walls.

He was tentative, slow, a little bit cautious. I could feel in his actions that he didn't want to mess this up by sending me slipping, or by hurting me, or moving wrong, and I shut my eyes to stop them from burning with emotion.

He got more confident pretty quickly, thrusting deeper, harder, responding to the noises and movements I made with passionate actions. I lifted my hips to him, meeting his pelvis each time, gasping into his mouth until we were both too overcome to kiss properly.

"I love seeing you like this," he told me, holding me so close. "So open and free with me. You let me have all of this and I just—" He nibbled on the delicate skin of my jaw with a quiet groan. "I love it."

My only answer was a soft, keening cry. My body was electrified, a wave building higher and higher just under my skin. He shifted forward a little, his pelvis falling in just the right spot so his cock hit something inside of me and I snatched at his sides.

"Right there," I panted, the sheen of sweat building between us as he glided easily in and out of me. "Right there, right there, don't stop—"

He bore down, really taking me, filling me so, so satisfyingly. The slow burn of impending release sparked into a full-blown bonfire. It twisted and curled, spreading up my back and I threw my head back with a trapped whimper, trying to arch and getting stuck in Fang's bear-hug embrace.

He noticed and released me a little, shifting an arm from behind my head to under the small of my back and I pushed up to meet a particularly deep plunge. A rolling shudder shook through me like earth-shaking thunder.

Fang's mouth went back to my chest, his tongue laving over the sides of my breasts, swooping down between them where the sensitive skin joined at my sternum and back right to a nipple. Intense heat ripped its way through my body and his gorgeous mouth left cooling trails across my chest. His tongue swirled around until I went a little bit crazy and I had to squeeze his arms with my fingers to keep myself from turning him onto his back.

I was so close. I was so, so close, molten and burning and I concentrated on the sounds of our bodies smacking lightly, slick with sweat and arousal and _oh, my God_.

My entire body clamped down on him, pulling him further into me and I could feel every part of him against me. His hips faltered and I felt him breathe shakily into my ear as he slowed a little. "I want to see you come for me sweetheart," he said hoarsely, his lips on my cheek, my nose, my lips. "Tell me what you want so I can see you fall apart around me."

"Faster," I whispered, and he listened without so much as a second of hesitation. I clung to him, wrapping all of my limbs around him so he could just pump into me again and again, rhythmic and fervent. "Oh, _God. _Oh, fuck, Fang, Fang, _Fang—_" My words died with a moan.

He rutted into me fast, bracing an arm against the bed and distantly, I heard the springs squeaking under us. I didn't even care. My heart pumped wildly in my chest and he whispered my name with such ardent emotion that I lost it.

My orgasm hit hard, inner walls spasmodic as they fluttered and clenched around him. My breath caught and my eyes cinched closed. I felt Fang lift his head from my shoulder but I was gone, incoherent noises slewing from my half-closed lips before his mouth captured them. I gave up trying to muffle myself and fell apart around him, letting him have it all.

"You're so beautiful," he said, thrusting still and drawing out the uncontrollable waves surging through me. "Fuck, Max, you're so goddamn beautiful and I have no idea why you chose me."

He meant so much to me, his gentle touches and careful actions helping me heal, helping me move on. He was the love of my life, and I kissed him so deeply that I felt it down to my toes as my contractions slowed.

"I'll always choose you," I said when I caught my breath. I slid my other hand through the silky feathers near his shoulder blade. "Every time, Fang. You're it for me."

His hips stuttered and he let go, groaning into my mouth. It was different than last time, when I'd felt him pulse warmly inside me. This time I just felt him twitch and throb as he released into the condom, and his thrusts slowed until he stilled.

He sagged on top of me, trying to hold his weight on his arms but he just didn't have the energy and he slumped. I didn't have any energy either and I ran my fingers down his back, burying my face in his shoulder. He turned his head and kissed the shell of my ear and I made another soft sound of contentment.

After a few minutes, his weight grew too heavy and hot and I squeezed his side to get him to roll off of me. Cool air washed over me when he did and I instantly missed his skin against mine, the feeling of him inside me. I glanced over at him.

His lean body was glistening slightly with sweat, softening dick ensconced in the used condom. My whole body throbbed and I grinned, rolling over to toss an arm across his chest. I was too hot to snuggle any closer than that.

His fingers ran up and down my arm lazily, and I waited for his pulse to return to normal under my palm. My eyes dragged, lids pulled to close and I let them.

At some point, I felt Fang take my hand and brush his cool lips against my knuckles. His weight shifted and his other palm settled low on my back. "You okay?"

I nodded drowsily, curling my fingers into his. He leaned forward and kissed my temple. "I'll be right back," he said and I nodded again. He rolled off the bed, but I was too tired to pay attention to what he was doing.

I sucked in a breath through my nose and let out a satisfied sigh. The air smelled like heat and sex and us and I buried my face in my shoulder with the most ridiculous smile on my lips. I probably looked like a lunatic, glowing with happiness just for having sex with someone I'd already slept with.

But it was such an accomplishment for us. I knew that it didn't mean everything about me was fixed, but literally nothing could ruin this for me right now.

The mattress dipped and Fang slipped back under my hand. I scooted closer, molding to his side and pillowing my head on him now that I was cooling off. "I feel like I couldn't move if I tried," I said, scratching at his chest with my blunt fingernails and wedging my leg between his.

He snorted and dragged the blankets over us. "Well, that's one way to stroke my ego."

"I could say that it's because I haven't had a full night's sleep in a couple days."

"But that would be lying," he teased quietly, his hand feeling across my scapulars, fingers running down the individual shafts of a few feathers. A pleasant tingle trickled down my spine and I rubbed my nose into his shoulder, burrowing closer.

"We did it," I said, serious now. I glanced up at him, feeling a stupid amount of emotion well in my chest. He lolled his head to look down at me.

"I knew we would," he said. His grin was soft but his eyes were full of heat. "Two weeks, a month, half a year…I knew we'd get back to it eventually."

I hadn't always been sure. It hadn't really been all that long, but it's been well established that I'm not a very patient person. Adding on all the files and the nightmares and the times where I had to stop…one month felt like four.

"How did you know?" I asked, propping my chin on him. "What if it never happened? What if I never—"

"Then we'd deal with it," he interrupted, raising a hand to trace a knuckle over my cheekbone. "We'd find other ways to be together. But you're stubborn. Too stubborn, sometimes." I pinched his side but he just cupped my cheek. "And you're strong. You're the strongest person I know. You don't let anything beat you, and you know I won't let you fall when things get a little too tough."

Whether he meant it literally or metaphorically, it didn't matter. Both were true, and I leaned up to press my lips against the corner of his mouth.

"We're a good team," I whispered.

He settled down into the pillows and pulled me tight against him. "We are."

I hummed and closed my eyes, letting the soothing motion of his fingers ghosting across my back lull me into sleep.

* * *

**Thoughts?**


	14. Learning (T)

**This was a challenge for myself. A 1,000 word chapter, split into four 'scenes,' a bunch of connected drabbles. And there's nothing over here from Fang's POV yet, so I'm putting it up. **

**Unbeta'd.**

* * *

**LEARNING**

**FANG**

He learns how to read her nightmares.

There are so many different ones but mostly, they fall under three categories.

There are the ones where she's her and she's being hurt or turned. He can tell, because she gets violent. She kicks out, bruising his shin or his hip. She claws, she scratches, she bites. He generally doesn't let those get too far before waking her up.

Then there's the ones where she's Parker. He can tell, because it's all erratic twitching and soft noises of fear. She couldn't fight back when she was locked away, so she doesn't in her sleep, either.

But the worst are the ones where she starts off with the kicking. Just one or two soft ones. Enough to wake him up. She whispers _no_.

And then she goes still. Statue still, tears leaking from under closed lids.

He knows what nightmares those are. And he hates them so much. He hates them all, but he hates those ones the most.

He has to watch her watch _them_. He has to watch her face twist in anger and terror until it settles into shame and disgust. Until she closes so far into herself that she ducks away inside her head while _already_ inside her head.

Sometimes, when he can't take watching that, he wakes her up. He knows he shouldn't. She needs the sleep, and the nightmares can't turn her anymore.

But he doesn't know how to help for those ones.

And it kills him.

* * *

The same sort of thing happens when they're fooling around.

It can start off one way and veer in the opposite direction so fast. They could be laughing and touching, trying to keep each other quiet late at night or in the early morning.

And then he might move just a little too fast. Or they'll find out that he can't come up behind her and latch onto her hips when she's standing in front of her desk. She'll be grinning, the pink tip of her tongue poking out between her teeth, and then suddenly she's twisting away, or freezing in his hands.

Sometimes, he doesn't do anything at all. She'll just…fall out of the moment. It could be a sound, or the way the light looks on the walls.

He tries to help. She asks him to talk to her a lot, just whatever comes to mind. It doesn't have to make sense, or be relevant. She just needs his voice. So he talks to her.

He tells her that he loves the freckle just below her collarbone. The scar that runs the length of her arm from her impromptu surgery. The long line of her neck. He tells her he loves the noise she makes when she's frustrated, that little snarl in the back of her throat.

Sometimes, it helps. Other times, she squeezes her eyes shut and she just can't do it. She can't fight past it, and she pushes away.

And he's back to square one.

* * *

She won't talk to him about _them _when it invades the bedroom. She'll tell him what triggered her panic, like a certain creak of the bed, but she won't share the memory.

He can guess, sometimes. Like the thing with her desk.

But she just shakes her head. _It doesn't matter_, she tells him. _They were fucking._ _The details aren't important. _

To be honest, he doesn't know if he wants the details.

She tells him she's got snippets. Just pieces. He knows she's got the first time in there. He knows she didn't duck away for that one, because it happened so fast.

That's as much as she's ever said.

Anyway, the whole thing is frustrating. Because it isn't linear. There's no pattern. She could be having a great day, and then a flashback will happen, and she can talk about it. Or she could be having a great day, but she _can't_ talk about it. It doesn't make sense.

He gets it—trauma isn't easy. There's no magic touch. There's just patience and time. They roll the dice daily on whether they'll take one step forward or two steps back.

He wishes that he could crack open her head and poke around. Find the memories she can't talk about and erase them.

But then he thinks of Gunther-Hagen, and how he cracked her head open. How he spindled the parts he wanted and twisted them, and threw out the bits he didn't want.

And Fang is horrified of himself.

* * *

He finds her on the floor one night. He reaches out across the bed to find the warmth of her body, but she isn't there.

There's a brief moment of panic. He's found her before, mid-flashback and muttering to herself downstairs in the spot where Bane died. Had she wandered off again?

He almost steps on her when he rolls out of bed.

_What are you doing down here?_ he asks, crouching by her head.

_Can't sleep, _she mumbles into the pillow she's dragged down there. _Restless. Didn't want to keep you up._

The tossing and turning. Some nights it's really bad, and it does keep him up.

He sighs. _Come back up to bed. _

She shakes her head. _'M fine. Slept on floors my whole life._

So he grabs the blankets and pillows and drags them onto the floor. She protests, but he settles in and rubs her back.

_Wake me up if you can't sleep, Max. You know I can help_, he tells her, not for the first time. _We're in this together. _

She doesn't say anything, and her hand curls into her pillow with unease.

_I think we're doing pretty good so far, _he tells her. Yeah, it's hard. Yes, they're both not getting a ton of sleep. There are more bad days than good days. There's some fumbling. A lot of moments where they both need to step back and take a breath. But—

_We'll get through this,_ he tells her.

And he really believes that.

* * *

**Thoughts?**


	15. Freedom with a Bang (M)

**Well, damn y'all. One thoroughly exploded inbox later, here's your smut. This one is a little different. It's in Fang's POV. **

**Also, the title wasn't meant to be a double entendre, it just turned out that way. I meant it the way people say 'with a bang' as in a grand gesture (out with a bang, off with a bang), and it just so happens that 'bang' also means sex. Hah. **

**Oh, well. Unbeta'd, of course. Rated M for (a rather raunchy) lemon and F-bombs. **

* * *

**FREEDOM WITH A BANG**

**FANG**

If it weren't for the fact that she was wearing that maddening black dress, he probably would have tried to crush the swelling need for her and just sent her to bed.

As it was, she'd gripped him by the back of his neck and planted her lips firmly to his. And he wasn't exactly any less excited than she was.

_Screw it_, he thought, his fingers curling into the material at her hips. After nearly three days of tumultuous, torturous _waiting,_ they needed this.

He could feel her wide smile, her frantic heartbeat, and he melted with the fact that this was utterly real. She wasn't in cuffs. She wasn't going away to some deep, dark, horrible place.

Fang abandoned her lips and kissed her jaw, sucking on the soft skin that smelled of whatever Spencer had tossed into a toiletry bag for her shower this morning. It was faintly floral, not that new strawberry he loved, but he really didn't care.

Max's fingers slid up into his hair, her nails on his scalp raising goosebumps from his neck down his arms. His hands twisted into the soft black of her dress for a moment before getting greedier. He grabbed her sides and slid his hands down her hips, swinging her sideways.

His aim had been to walk her towards the front stairwell, but he'd forgotten about the small hall table _again_.

They bumped into it and Max laughed against his cheek. The pile of mail that had been gathering on it tipped to the floor.

"Whoops," he mumbled, too preoccupied with the tantalizing skin of her neck to care. Max didn't seem to mind either, and his hands went to the rounded bump of her ass.

He hesitated for a second. The table might be a bad idea. Gently, he pushed her back into it. The backs of his hands met the wooden surface first, and she didn't protest. She was way worked up, excited as hell. He gripped a handful of her toned ass and lifted her onto the table.

"Oh, man," she groaned, trying to pull him between her knees with her legs. The close-fitting material of her dress didn't let her get too far, and the front of his pants tightened incredibly.

She whimpered an absolutely needy, breathy sound, tugging at his shirt and pulling it free from its tuck into his jeans. His fingers found her sides, scrunching the dress in his hands. "Lift," he instructed, and she leaned back with a hand braced on the table to lift herself up.

He took in the creamy skin of her thighs as he pushed her dress up to circle her waist. Her legs immediately curled around the backs of his, one flat shoe falling from her foot. The other hung from her toes and his head swam.

"Fuck, I'm glad Spencer picked this dress," he couldn't help but growl in her ear. Her hot hands pressed into the planes of his abdomen.

"It's good luck, apparently," she snickered, nails dragging down his stomach in a quick, painless swipe. Nimble fingers popped the button on his jeans and her hand took all of half a second to find its way into the front.

She ripped a groan from him. He honestly didn't think he'd ever get used to her much smaller hand running along his length. Even with his boxers as a barrier, her hand was hot, fingernails light as the ghosted over him.

Fang's teeth found her earlobe when she pulled him out of his boxers. That hot hand wrapped around him and _squeezed_.

"We should move upstairs," she breathed, pushing his pants down to his thighs with her other hand anyway. "Before we get too carried away and forget the condom."

Well, that wouldn't be a problem. With all the grace of a drunk squirrel, Fang shoved his fingers into the back pocket of his sagging jeans and produced his wallet. "I have one."

Max gave him a look of incredulity. "And where exactly did you think we were gonna be that we'd need a condom in your _wallet_?"

He shrugged and pulled an unholy grin. "It's coming in handy now, isn't it?"

Max snatched his wallet and dropped it next to her hip before smashing their mouths back together. Fang's thoughts flew from his mind and he found himself clenching his fingers in the loose material around Max's hips as her hand worked him in long, smooth strokes. That bathtub 'getting-to-know-you' thing had probably been one of the smartest ideas she'd ever had, because _holy shit—_

"God, Max," he managed to force out instead of a groan. It took everything in him not to rut into her hand. _Calm down, what are you, fourteen?_

Suddenly, she was pushing him back, and he had a moment of brief panic. He _knew_ the table had been a bad—

She was on her knees. Why was she on—?

Fang hunched forward, his palm slamming to the surface of the table behind her when her lips wrapped around his cock.

Really, he should be the one all over _her, _taking in all the bits of her he thought he'd never see again, physical or not. It occurred to him that maybe she was thinking the exact same thing.

He had no idea what he'd done to deserve this. Deserve _her_. Her mouth was hot and wet and her _tongue_, _oh_ fuck, her tongue—

Fang had the presence of mind to help her out a little, reaching to pull her hair out of the way of her hands and mouth. She looked absolutely gorgeous; pink lips around him, chestnut eyes flicking up under those long, dark eyelashes.

He was going to _lose it_ with her looking at him like that. He shut his eyes and took a deep breath. The wet heat of her mouth was so blindingly perfect. Her tongue drew lines up and down his dick, her hands worked what she didn't have in her mouth, and the dirty sound of suction had him dropping her hair and gripping the table with both hands.

"You…" he pushed out, trying his hardest to concentrate on keeping down the building coil of release. Her tongue swirled around the tip of him and the rest of his ill-formed sentence came out in a strangled groan.

Max just hummed as a means of responding, and that zipped straight from the head of his cock through to his balls. He rolled his hips forward on accident, completely out of his own control now. He felt Max's throat contract around him and the sound of a small choke. She squeezed his thigh and pulled back a little.

"Sorry," he mumbled, breathing in deep. "Your mouth is just so fucking sinful."

He felt the way her lips stretched into a smile around him and there was no way he was going to last much longer with her down there. No way in hell. Their family could walk in right now and he'd be too far gone to care.

He was torn between warning her that he was about to spill down her throat and pulling her off him. He knew though that as soon as he came, all the sleep he hadn't been getting would hit him like a ton of bricks and he'd be completely useless.

Fang moved a hand under her chin and pulled her off him. He sucked in a breath and then leaned down to capture her swollen lips. Max's hand stilled where it was still wrapped around him and for that, he was grateful.

"Much as I'd love for you to finish me off like this," he said, noticing how shaky his legs had gotten in the meantime, "I want _you_."

"Then take me," she challenged and Jesus Christ he was going to have to calm down a little bit before that actually happened.

He pulled her up and hooked his fingers into her underwear. He got them to her knees before settling her onto the table again so he could pull them the rest of the way off.

"Those better not end up on this floor," she warned him as his fingers teased the skin behind her knee. "We'll forget them like we did my scrubs."

He grinned at her and made a show of tucking her underwear into his pocket. "I'll keep 'em safe," he teased, wrapping his hands around her thighs and pulling her to the edge of the table. She scrambled for his wallet, but he was still too worked up, he knew.

Before she could fish the condom from the billfold, he ducked down and hitched her legs over his shoulders. She let out a squeak of surprise and her hand clambered for something to hold onto, which just so happened to end up being his hair.

He found that she was already pretty turned on. Like, really. His dick gave an excited twitch as the scent of her tangy center hit his nose. "Jesus, Max," he said, pressing a kiss to the inside of her thigh. She pushed a small sound through her nose.

He knew even before he started that he was going to tease her. He needed some time still, and she had made these lovely little sounds of pleasure inside Jackson's bunker when he'd teased her.

They'd had to be quiet then. They certainly didn't now.

Plus, he wanted to make this day so unbelievably memorable. The day she'd been freed from her past.

Her outer lips were firm and a blushing dark pink and he parted them with his thumbs. He was greeted by slick inner folds and a seeping center and his tongue darted out to taste her before he could stop himself.

Her groan was music to his ears—and loud. Wonderfully loud and all his and his fingers fanned against the underside of her thighs.

Then he really got to work. He traced around all the sensitive, fun bits with his tongue, avoiding that little pearl of flesh she'd directed him to the first time he'd gotten a real good look down here. He nipped and sucked and licked over the soft inner folds and she whimpered, fisting her hand in his hair hard.

Her hips angled towards him, thighs shaking around his ears. Her other hand curled around the back of his head.

She was wound so tight, struggling to find support on the small table and clinging to him hard. He glanced up at her while his tongue ran over—but not into—her entrance.

Her face was flushed and needy sounds spilled from between stunning lips. Her eyes met his. "Fang," she crooned, and his entire frame felt light as air. His heart slammed hard against his ribcage. "Fang, please—"

"Please what?" he taunted, leaving sloppy, wet kisses all over her. Her collarbones were glistening and her chest was heaving, breasts hidden beneath the material of her dress. One of his hands travelled up her side until he had a handful of one in his palm.

She threw her head back and gasped. "Your tongue," she breathed, and he knew what she wanted but he feigned innocence anyway.

He hummed against her the same way she'd done around him and her legs both jerked, heels digging into his back. "You'll have to be more specific," he said, letting his lips brush her as he spoke.

She actually made a noise that sounded like a growl, hooking her fingers under his jaw and planting him exactly where she wanted him. "Right there," she said, moving her fingers to clutch at his over her breast.

He breathed a laugh against her skin before rolling the hood of her clit between his lips. Her legs jerked again, like she couldn't control them at all and he sucked harder at her. She cried out loudly and he squeezed her thigh.

He switched it up a little bit, rooting his tongue around until he touched upon her clit, flicking it again and again, kneading her breast under his hand with the same rhythm. Her cries cut off and he glanced up to see her eyes squeezed closed, mouth gaping.

Fucking hell, she had no idea how she looked like that. And _he_ did that to her. _He _ made her look like that, almost undone and beautifully open.

"Ah, ah—_ohmyGod,_" she gasped, her fingers clasping hard around his. "Wait, Fang, I'm gonna—"

Her orgasm surprised them both. He hadn't known she was _that _close. Her knees snapped together around his ears and she lost it. She pushed his mouth away from her and he watched her clench and pulse around nothing.

He smirked and kissed the patch of curly hair above her sex before standing and running his hands over her thighs. "I knew you were excited, but you must be pretty horny, too."

A breathless laugh tumbled from her parted, panting lips. She looked like she was having trouble just sitting upright and she curled a hand into his shirt. "A lot of endorphins in realizing my freedom," she told him before leaning forward to kiss him. Her tongue probed the inside of his mouth, darting behind his upper lip before tangling with his own.

He was less likely to explode on impact now, but he had no idea if she was too sensitive. She wrapped a hand around his still-hard member, passing a thumb over his tip and he hissed. "You okay to keep going?"

"I think so," she said, pliant and putty-like in his hands. One of them travelled into her hair, gripping a handful while she stroked him a few quick times, and all he wanted to do was hold her close.

"I almost went out of my mind worrying about you," he whispered, leaning his forehead against hers. "I don't know what I would have done if you were arrested."

"You don't have to worry about that now," she said with a small smile. She kissed the corner of his mouth. "I'm here, I'm fine, and I'm not going _anywhere._"

The need swelled incredibly again. The physical need to hold onto her, the need to find home in her—he squeezed her hip. "I need you."

She nodded and he found the condom where she'd dropped it next to her hip. It took him all of two seconds to rip the packet open and get it on. All the while Max lined his jaw with sweet, tiny kisses.

He took her thighs in his hands again, pulling her closer. She took the initiative to line him up, her other hand wrapped around his side.

He couldn't help himself and he just slid forward, burying himself to the hilt inside her in a single, fluid movement. Max melted with a broken groan and leaned back a little, bracing a hand behind her.

"Don't be gentle," she begged him and he was seriously so, so glad she'd said that because he _needed_ something a little rougher, the hard pound of their pelvises and dirty, slapping sounds. He was craving it in this moment and she seemed to need it that way, and he kissed her hard.

He wrapped an arm around her waist and drove into her again, snapping his hips forward. She couldn't move back against him all that well but that was fine—this position was different and utterly deep and he groaned low in her ear.

He was going to get her to come again. He wasn't going to until she did, he'd make sure of that. He wanted to feel her clamp around him, he wanted that possessive clenching of her inner walls. He reached between them as he rocked into her, his thumb finding her clit again and rubbing into her in time with his hips.

The mewl that dropped from her open mouth was angelic. She was so warm and he shuddered as he plunged into her again and again.

He heard something thumping under the sounds of their skin smacking and a combination of a laugh and a groan came from Max. "We're gonna put a hole in the wall."

The table. The table was hitting the wall, rocking into it each time he rocked into her. "Don't care," he said and closed his teeth on her sleeve-covered shoulder.

It was a little harder because of the condom, but he could still feel the ridges of her walls, the texture of her around him. The primal feeling of being so wholly _close_ to her, inside her, around her, _everywhere_—it took over him.

One of Max's hands slid around behind his neck and he felt her thighs tighten on him again. "Just like that," she whispered, throaty and sexy and _fuck— _"Just like that, keep going, _unh—_"

She was so wet and hot and perfect and he couldn't be sure if he'd said that out loud or not, but Max cried out, almost there—

Her mouth turned and caught his lips as she contracted around him. Her heat was suffocating and flawless and the base of his dick tingled with warmth. Her body was greedy, fluttering around him. Her bracing arm fell away.

He was holding onto her so tight it didn't matter. Max was still making noises, still coming on his cock and he couldn't hold out any longer.

His release hit him hard, a firecracker burning down before bursting. He pulsed inside her, his heart thrashing wildly and his throat growling out a groan.

It took him a few seconds to feel his fingers and toes again. Max's body gave him one last squeeze before going still.

She pressed her cheek into his neck, her breath labored and warm on his skin. Like he'd suspected, his fatigue hit him right about then.

"Shit," he said into her hair, brushing it away from her neck. "Now all I want to do is sleep."

A puff of air came through her nose in what might have been a laugh. Her hand came up to rest against his chest, right at his heart. It was still beating fast.

"Did you get any sleep while I was gone?" she asked, and she sounded drained.

"Some," he said, pulling back from her. He held her face in his hands and brushed her hair behind her ears. She looked similarly tired, but her eyes were bright, happy.

"I'm open to crashing," she admitted, then grimaced and glanced down between them. "We should, uh, clean up though."

Her bare ass was on the table and though the condom caught his release, she'd been incredibly turned on with nothing between her and the wood.

He chuckled and took in the sight of her, disheveled with his cock still sheathed inside her. He slid a hand up the back of her now-wrinkled black dress and ran a hand through her rumpled hair. "Evil," he said about the dress again.

"Oh, please. I'll bet you've fantasized something similar to this since you saw me in it months ago. Admit it."

Damn right he had. Or peeling it from her skin to reveal the naked flesh below, or having her on top of him where he could see nothing under the fabric but feel _everything—_

His cock twitched inside her and Max rolled her eyes. "Sleep first, play more later."

He could deal with that. He nuzzled her neck and squeezed her to him tightly. "Love you. And welcome home."

Max laughed. It was hearty and beautiful and he pulled back to kiss her again.

* * *

**Thanks for any and all reviews!**


	16. Names (T)

**Sorry, this isn't Dylan's letters. Those need a little more work before they're posted. This is just a quick, fluffy bit that takes place around chapter 65 of Catalyst proper. Unbeta'd.**

* * *

**NAMES**

**FANG**

He needed to pick a name. He'd filled out the rest of the form in front of him with everything else: his birthday, according to the files, his weight, his height, his hair and eye color, everything except his name.

He didn't see the point in picking anything else except Fang for his first name. Before, using Nick had been to keep from drawing unnecessary attention. Nothing said 'unique' like the name Fang.

Now…well now there were pictures of him and the rest of the Flock across every newspaper, every television station. His face was recognizable now. So why pick something like Nick if everyone knew he had wings anyway?

Fang scrawled his first name neatly into the blank box. He didn't care for a middle name, so he left that empty.

That left a last name.

He didn't know his real last name. His mother's signature was nearly illegible on the papers giving him up to the hospital. Her first name was Stacey or Sandy or something that started with an S and ended with a Y. Maybe it was a fake name. The last name was a scribbly line.

He had to pick his own. He'd been flipping through magazines and books, searching for something that popped out at him. It had been entirely fruitless.

Fang sat back in the desk chair in his and Max's room and played with his pen. Doe? Like John Doe?

Fang Doe. That sounded ridiculous. Fang Doh, like Homer Simpson was an influence. Johnson? Smith? It would be kind of funny to have a normal last name behind the abnormal 'Fang' but also impersonal.

God, like this even really mattered. He'd always just been Fang. No one was going to call him by his fake last name, and if they did, he'd just correct them anyway.

Fang tossed his pen on the desk and got up to stretch his legs. He found Nudge in her room, filling out her own paperwork.

"Choosing something ridiculous as a middle name again?" he asked, leaning on the door jamb. Doe-eyes (there was that dumb name again) blinked back at him.

"How old do you think I am?" she grumbled. "I'm not eleven, sheesh. Tiffany-Krystal-whatever is so eight years ago."

He chuckled and stole a glance at her paperwork. She'd kept Monique, and she'd filled in her middle name as Nudge.

"What was your birth middle name?" he asked, and she shook her head.

"I didn't have one. Perfect, right? I get to keep both my names!" she said, smiling cheerily. "But now I'm trying to figure out if I want to keep my given last name, Munroe."

"As opposed to?"

She chewed on her lip. "I was thinking Arken. I mean, I'm already keeping my birth first name, and both my parents are dead. My only family is Jackson, and he means a lot more to me than 'Munroe' but at the same time…I dunno. What do you think?"

Fang shrugged. "Look them up. What do they both mean? That's what I'd do."

Nudge considered this, then leaned over to drag her laptop in front of her. "Let's see…'Munroe name meaning'…come on Google, gimme the answers."

Fang moved behind her chair and peered over her shoulder. Her brown fingers drummed while the page loaded. "Did you ask Jackson what he thought?"

"No. He'd be totally biased," she said, shaking her head. "He'd be like—" She dropped her voice deeper in imitation of her brother's, "'—Arken is the best name ever. It could be a superhero name, Nudge. Jackson Arken—it's better than Bruce Wayne! Nudge Arken? Badass!'"

Fang laughed. "He does seem obsessed with comic books."

"Half his tattoos are superheroes. He's a total nerd," Nudge said affectionately. "Oh jeez." She pointed at her screen. "Munroe is Scottish, apparently. 'Of the red marsh.' How do I have a Scottish last name?"

Fang looked closer at the screen. "There's actually a long history of black people in Scotland. Scottish tobacco lords held a third of all Jamaican slaves, and some were brought back to Scotland to work in the house."

"Oh, joy," Nudge said dryly, scrolling down a page detailing the long history of the Munroe name. "So either one of my ancestors married into a slaveholding family, chose a Scottish name when they were freed, or was the product of a slave and master relationship."

Fang grunted. "Or maybe we're overthinking, and it has nothing to do with Scotland."

Nudge sighed and went back to Google. "Alright, now for Arken…"

Arken wasn't extremely popular, and there was an alternative spelling of 'Arkin.' Nudge clicked on a random webpage and skimmed.

"Oh, hey look! 'You enjoy working at anything of a mechanical or technical nature!'" She laughed. "It's like a horoscope, but whatever—it's true!"

Fang pointed further down on the page. "'This name creates a slow and methodical way of thinking and speaking.'" He tweaked her poufy ponytail. "Nothing about you is slow and methodical. Especially your speaking."

"Psh, I can be slow and methodical! Sometimes. Okay, no, that part is wrong. But it got the first part right." She shrugged and twirled her pen in her fingers. "The more I think about it, the more I want to use Arken. But is that like betraying my legacy? I mean…both my parents are gone. I'm the only one that can continue their name directly."

"Nudge, you're your own legacy," he said. "You should choose whichever name means more to you."

She chewed on her lip, and then gave a determined nod. "Okay. Okay, Arken it is."

"Monique Nudge Arken," Fang said, reading her new name off her forms as she filled in the last blank.

She perked up. "When I said it, I wasn't sure. But hearing someone else say it…I like it." Her white teeth flashed and she looked up at him. "Thanks, Fang."

"Sure," he said, though he was no closer to figuring out his own name. "Iggy pick his yet?"

"No. Well, he knows he's sticking with Iggy, obviously. He keeps saying he's gonna go with like Napalm or Explosion for his last name."

Fang snorted. "Somehow, that doesn't surprise me."

"What about you?" she asked, leaning back in her chair.

"Haven't picked it out yet."

"Eh, you'll figure it out," she said, loads more confident than he was. "You always do."

* * *

He was still agonizing over it two days later.

"This is so stupid," he groaned, flopping onto the bed. Max was already snuggled under the covers, a notebook in her lap and a pen behind her ear.

"It's just a last name," she said, flipping through the notebook. There was a random assortment of information pilfered from the FBI servers on credible tips in there. She was trying to piece things together, pretty unsuccessfully.

"Easy for you to say. You picked yours out when you were six."

"Sally Ride was a badass," she shot back.

"If you had to pick again, what would you choose?" he asked, turning over onto his back. He pushed her notebook out of her lap and dropped his head there instead. She sighed.

"I already did, once. Max Andino, remember?" she said. She looked down at him, strands of hair falling free from her loose ponytail. "It served me well, but it wasn't mine. Maximum Ride has always been mine."

He waggled his eyebrows. "You live up to it, too."

She flicked his forehead. "What are you, fifteen?"

"Fifteen-year-old me wouldn't know enough to make that claim."

She made a face at him. "_Anyway_, it's not like you can't change it again later on, Fang."

He didn't want to change it later on. Most people had one name, and they kept it until the day they died. Well, with the exception of the whole marriage thing and taking the last name of—

Fang paused. He glanced up at Max, who was leafing through the notebook by her hip. Her fingers combed idly through his hair.

There was no one else for him. He already planned on spending the rest of his life with her. He hadn't really thought about marriage with how much crap they were dealing with, and neither of them were big on the traditional ceremonies anyway.

But to call her his wife…

He couldn't explain the jump his heart made. Max, completely oblivious to his train of thought, pulled her pen from behind her ear and scrawled something in her notebook.

Yeah. Yeah, he really wanted to call her his wife. 'Girlfriend' felt like too weak a word for what she was to him anyway. It would still have to wait for a while. Their lives were too busy and the timing wasn't quite right, but he was going to ask her. Casually, of course. She'd hate anything public. She'd hate big and showy, and he wasn't much for theatrics, either.

He was getting ahead of himself, though. This whole train of thought had come to him because of the tradition of a woman taking a man's last name when married—but he knew for a fact that Max would probably find that totally sexist, and also unthinkable because she had been Max Ride since she was a kid.

Which meant no matter what name he chose, she wouldn't change hers. She wouldn't be Max Doe, or Max Smith, or Max Whatever-Fang-Chooses-As-A-Last-Name.

She'd be Maximum Ride. And he really didn't want her to change it from that, anyway.

Max finally seemed to notice that he was staring at her, a handful of minutes later. "What?" she asked, eyeing him.

He could totally be Fang Ride. Two, four-letter names, short and simple. And he wasn't insecure enough to feel emasculated or something. Ride meant a lot more to him than Johnson or whatever else he'd end up choosing.

Max twisted her fingers in his hair a little, enough to break his train of thought. "What the heck are you thinking about? I can see the wheels turning in there."

He tugged her fingers from his hair. "I have an idea."

"Uh-oh."

Suddenly, he was nervous. What if she said no? What if she thought it was weird? She wasn't dumb—she'd get what that meant, sharing her last name.

"Fang…" Max set her pen down. "Seriously, what—"

It came out in an uncharacteristic blurt. "What if I just took yours?"

Max blinked at him. "My what? My name?"

He sat up, crossing his legs under him to face her. "Honestly, I don't have any idea what to choose." He played with her fingers, tracing the edge of one fingernail. "So, what if I shared yours?"

"…why?" she said. "I would have thought you'd want to construct this whole new identity and research like crazy. A real name, a legal one."

"I have been researching," he said, flopping back onto his back by her feet. "For days. But I don't want something that means nothing to me. Plus, you know…" He swallowed. "There's the future to think about."

She flipped the blankets off and crawled up his body. "That has all sorts of implications. You know that, right?"

"This isn't a proposal," he said quickly. He took her hand and kissed her fingertips. "Believe me, I'll think of something better than a request to share your name. But I don't want you to change your name when we do get hitched, as if you even would. And I don't care to pick one that means nothing to me. So, yeah. I want yours. It'll save us some paperwork later on."

She rolled her eyes, which he would have taken offense to if that had been a real proposal. As it was, his anxiety died.

"Of course, you'd think of paperwork," she said.

"I hate paperwork."

She smiled down at him. "I know." Then she nodded slowly. "Okay. If you want my name…okay." She rested her chin on his chest. "Fang Ride. Sounds good."

He grinned and brushed one of her flyaway strands behind her ear. "I thought so, too."

* * *

**This is entirely fluffy, and just because it never found a good place in Catalyst proper. So, lost chapter it is. Enjoy, and please review :)**


	17. Ethereal (M)

**This is something I worked on sometime around August, months ago. It takes place sometime after Max's FBI deal is finalized, but before Gunther-Hagen is caught. **

**It's also a lemon. So there's that. Unbeta'd.**

**Also, there's another companion piece for Catalyst that I put up as a feeler, called Symbiosis. Check that out for me, if ya would. :)**

* * *

**ETHEREAL**

**FANG**

He didn't speak while her fingers trailed over his bare chest, circling his pectorals and tracing old scars.

She'd woken him up fourteen minutes ago with a particularly violent nightmare, screaming shortly before muffling her mouth to his shoulder. It had taken her a while to calm down, and now they were just lying quietly, tangled together.

She tried to sniff but her whole nose was clogged. He reached over her shoulder for the box of tissues, snagging a few.

"What time is it?" she asked stuffily, taking the offered tissues and blowing her nose.

"Ten to two," he answered, wrapping his hand around the dip in her small waist. She tossed the tissues onto the side table.

"Only? Fuck," she swore, rolling onto her back. She brought her legs up and cracked her toes and he winced at the sound. He hated that noise, but she'd been cracking her joints since she was nine.

She didn't say it, but he knew. "Sleep not an option anymore?" he asked. Max bit her lip and didn't look at him.

"I'm just going to…go do something else," she said, rolling out from under his wing and climbing out of bed.

"Max—"

"I don't want to talk about it," she interrupted, and Fang sighed, sitting up and retracting his wing.

"That's fine. You don't have to," he said, watching her yank open a drawer in the dresser. "But you don't have to run, either."

"I'm not going to keep you up all night," she argued, pulling a pair of sleep shorts from the dresser's depths and sticking her foot through the leg. "I'll just go write or something. Maybe I'll go for a fly. I don't know."

She left the room without another word and he flopped backwards on the bed with an annoyed grumble at the back of his throat.

Truth was, whether or not she stayed with him, he'd be awake all night anyway when he knew she was fighting off nightmares in her waking hours.

He heard the back door open and close, but the sound of flapping wings was noticeably absent. Sitting on the back porch, then. Probably looking at the washed out summer night sky and trying to spot stars over the glow of L.A.

An idea sprung into Fang's head and he rolled out of bed, yanking on a pair of sweatpants before trailing downstairs. He didn't know if he'd be able to see the trailing lights with how close to the city they were, but maybe…

Fang opened the back door and sure enough, Max was sitting on the stoop, her head leaning on the railing. She didn't look behind her as he came out. It's wasn't exactly cold outside, but the lack of warm rays of sun made the slight breeze more icy than refreshing, and she had her arms wrapped around herself. Too stubborn to come back in for a sweatshirt, because she knew she'd have to face him again if she did.

He shut the door and slid next to her. She was playing with her ring.

"The Perseids is supposed to be pretty active right now," he said, taking her hand in his. He rubbed his thumb along the back of her knuckles and looked up into the sky.

She didn't answer at first and then, quietly: "The Perseids?"

"Meteor shower," he told her, frowning when he saw all of four stars in the sky because of the light pollution. "But with L.A. so close—"

"Stars are washed out," she finished with a nod. "Seems to be one of the downsides of living here."

That and the fact that she couldn't walk through the hall to her living room without stepping around the space Bane's dead body had occupied. And the fact that her garage gave her chills. She'd moved her car into Spencer's space and forced him to park in her old one, just so that it looked different than the moment she'd been turned back into Parker.

Half of him wanted to tell her that maybe they should move. The house held both good and bad memories, but mostly, it just held the echo of her screams and was haunted by the dead lover of her also dead Alter.

But it wouldn't do to just run away from it all permanently. Once in a while, sure. If she just kept running away, they'd have to move every time her nightmares outnumbered the good memories.

Then he thought of the warehouse.

He stood with her hand still in his and urged her up. "Come on."

"I don't want to go back inside," she protested when he turned to open the door.

"We're not. Well, yeah, we are, but only to get some warmer clothes and shoes and stuff."

She turned her head to look up at him finally. "Why? Are we going somewhere?"

He just nodded and popped open the door, dropping her hand to see if curiosity would win out over her hesitancy.

It did. He was halfway up the stairs when he heard the door open again. He got to their room and pulled out a zip-up, a t-shirt, and a pair of jeans, changing quickly before shoving his feet into his shoes.

"Where are we going?" she asked, rubbing her arms briskly as she watched him.

"Somewhere we can see the stars," he said, pausing to drop a kiss on top of her head and catch a whiff of her strawberry shampoo. "Get dressed and meet me downstairs."

* * *

Instead of landing in front of the warehouse, Fang spiraled down slowly to land on top of it. His wings flared up and away from his body so he could land without jogging to slow his momentum. He left them out to cool and glanced up to see Max descending in the same fashion thirty feet to his left.

Out here at the tip of the canyon, the lights from L.A. were a bit more distant. He could still see their glow over the peak of the Santa Monica mountain range, but if he looked north, the sky lit with stars.

Max stumbled a little on her landing, her shoe catching on some raised roofing and she grumbled at it. She played with the two water bottles in her hands while he shook out the quilt he'd snagged from the hall closet. He found a flat part of the roofing and spread the blanket, then dropped onto it with his arms spread wide.

"We haven't been out here in a while," Max said, toeing off her shoes. She wedged the water bottles upright in her shoes so they didn't roll anywhere and joined him on the quilt.

"Not since I killed my laptop, no."

"Feels like years," she muttered, resting her head on his arm.

Before he could say another word, a streak of light appeared across the sky.

Max gasped and her head jerked in the direction of the split-second tail. "Oh, whoa, was that—"

He nodded and grinned. "It's past peak date, but we should still be able to see one every few minutes."

"How come I didn't hear anything about a meteor shower happening around here?" she asked, moving closer to his side. She reached up to thread her fingers through his.

"It's an annual shower," he explained, searching out constellations while he waited for the next meteor. "Between July and August. I guess the news just doesn't cover it much when it happens around the same time every year."

"Too much focus on reality TV stars," she joked. "Did you just happen to hear about it, or did you know about it already?"

"I knew about it," he said, thinking back to the E-shaped house in Colorado, when sleep was much harder to come by for him and Jeb had only just broken them out of the School.

He'd often gone to the roof of the house to think or fight off nightmares. The expanse of the open sky calmed him. It was a reminder that he wasn't caged, and that he could take off whenever he wanted.

That was when he'd seen the trail blink across the sky out of the corner of his eye.

The Colorado sky was already gorgeous, cluttered with stars as far as his eye could see out in the middle of nowhere. But the Perseids shower was something else entirely. The unpredictable movement of bits of outer space breaking through Earth's atmosphere had jumpstarted his thirst for knowledge.

"I watched it every year, back in Colorado," he said, turning his head to watch her eyes travel over the stars. "I didn't know what it was at first, so I started looking things up. They come from a comet three times the size as the one that killed the dinosaurs millions of years ago. It's called Swift-Tuttle."

She turned her head and met his eyes. "Swift-Tuttle. Seriously?"

"It's named after the scientists who discovered it," he said with a chuckle. "Most of them are."

She rolled her eyes. "Gotta leave their mark in the history books."

He caught sight of another streak just above her head and the sight left him breathless: his stunning girlfriend under blinking stars and luminous bursts of extraterrestrial activity.

He rolled onto his side and cupped her cheek in his palm, warmth fanning through his chest like low-burning coals.

The meteors above them were fleeting, quickly disbursed into nothing, but the completely unquenchable way he felt about her only grew stronger the more it burned. She remained fiery and all-consuming, a brilliant flare.

He kissed her before she could ask him just what the hell he was staring at. Her lips tasted salty, probably from her earlier tears, but he didn't let that stop him from taking her lower lip into his mouth and tracing his tongue along its lines.

Max made a soft noise of surprise and her fingers, still threaded through his, clenched tightly before releasing.

When he pulled away, she looked a little dazed but her smile was dazzling. "What was that for?"

"Nothing," Fang said, turning onto his back again. "Just felt right."

She twisted, wedging her leg between both of his and wrapping an arm around his chest. "What else do you have packed away in that brain of yours?"

Every smile, every kiss, every wrinkle of her brow.

"I can point out the constellations," he said instead.

She assented quietly and he raised his hand to pick out the five stars that formed an 'M' in the sky. He taught her about Cassiopeia, the vain queen. He pointed out Cassiopeia's daughter Andromeda, almost too low on the horizon to be seen, and told her the story of Perseus.

He recited the legend of how Andromeda was chained to a rock by her mother and her father in an attempt to save the region of Aethiopia from the sea monster Cetus.

Perseus, the first hero and slayer of Cetus, founded the Perseid dynasty, and was where the meteor shower got its name—for its appearance in Perseus' constellation cluster.

They saw a few more meteors as Fang told the story, distracted only by Max's fingers drawing random patterns on his chest. When he finished, she looked up at him, hair shifting to tickle his elbow.

"Does it ever get annoying? Remembering everything?"

"Sometimes," he answered honestly. "There are things I wish I could forget. Like all of the School. But then I'd forget a lot of the good things, too."

"Good things, huh?" she asked, giving him that mischievous smile that curled at the left corner of her mouth. "Like what?"

He glanced down, brushing his thumb across her hairline. He shrugged and smirked at her. "Like Nudge's face when Iggy farts."

She rolled to straddle his thighs, hands planted flat on his chest. "Try again."

He grinned up at her, settling his hands high on her thighs which were clad in her tight running pants. "There's…the time you tried to make Mac and Cheese when we were twelve. I remember it tasted like burnt shoes."

She flicked his sternum. "You offered to eat it first, so I don't want any complaints."

"That's because no one else wanted to risk food poisoning."

Max scrunched up her nose. "How is that a _good _memory?"

He shrugged. It wasn't really, mostly because of the smell and the sticky way everything clotted together in the pot she'd destroyed. "More funny in the way that Gaz didn't believe me and tasted it anyway. His gas was so bad, and I definitely remember that smell."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm sensing a common denominator in farting."

His grin got wider and he sat up, tugging on her thighs to pull her legs around his waist.

"I remember the look on your face the first time you kissed me," he said, bumping the point of her nose with his. Her eyebrows went high and he nipped at her lips. "There it is."

She smiled against his mouth and kissed him back, wrapping her legs around his waist.

Her legs were definitely one of the sexiest things about her. They were strong and lithe. Covered in scars or not, they were perfect in every way and he let his hands wander over them, from the tops of her thighs down to her knees at his sides.

Max sighed quietly and he felt her massaging fingers creep across his scalp, catching in his hair. His neck tingled and the hair on his arms stood up in pleasure.

She pulled her lips from his and sought out the skin of his neck instead. Her teeth grazed his flesh.

"What else do you remember?" she asked, lips forming the words on his throat. Her fingers found the zipper of his hoodie and she unzipped it, sliding closer to slip her hands around his back under the sweatshirt.

His feathers shuffled on their own as her fingers brushed the base of his wings, still shoved through the slits in his zip-up.

"Our first date in Hawaii," he mumbled, sweeping his thumbs up the inside of her thighs and squeezing. "I like that memory. Before the Flyboys, obviously."

She laughed, pulling his hoodie off his shoulders and attempting to work it over his massive wings. "Wouldn't be us if a date didn't end with a fight. Back then, at least."

"True," he said, letting go of her legs to help her with his zip-up. They got it off and he tossed it next to her shoes, then raised his wings to wrap around them and block out the chilly breeze.

"You know, I love your wings, and I love having wings," she said, pulling back from him and scrunching up his shirt. "But I _hate_ how difficult it is to get shirts off with them."

He didn't really have much of a chance to answer before his shirt was over his head and arms and hanging from the base of his wings. She was certainly eager, and he just left his shirt in favor of wrapping an arm around her slender waist and twisting them to lay her under him.

"You're just too impatient," he mumbled back, wedging his hands under her shoulder blades and diving down to kiss her hard.

Max arched straight into him, breath catching in her throat when she felt his arousal for her, half hard and definitely not winding down any time soon.

She didn't make it any easier, either. One of her legs came off the blanket, socked foot trailing up the leg of his jeans to wrap around him and press them together.

Four different layers separated them but her body was hot and flushed and his dick strained against his pants when it pressed against her. He couldn't help grinding down, his head dropping to the left of hers onto the quilt.

He needed to feel her on his fingertips, and he fought with the back of her windbreaker to slide his hands up her spine. She was so soft, like cool satin and baby downy feathers. He could feel the slightly raised scars on the pads of his fingers and he turned his head to kiss her ear.

Fang's hands spread wide, fingers stretching to hold the entirety of her lower back in his palms. His lips sought her earlobe and he heard the low whine build in her throat.

Her vocalization was seriously one of the best parts of touching her, especially since she seemed to have to fight so hard to be quiet. It had become a little bit of a challenge to him to make her completely abandon her attempts at muffling herself. The rise and fall of her voice, the way her pitch got higher the closer she was to coming…it was all so honest and bare because God knew Max was the queen of avoiding PDA.

Fang sat back and unzipped her windbreaker, then pushed her shirt to her ribs so he could mouth at her navel and the expanse of skin he revealed.

She relaxed and dropped her head onto the quilt, hands ghosting over his shoulders. His lips found and kissed each of her ribs, working up to the hem of her shirt—his shirt, really. She'd fallen asleep in it hours ago and it was starting to drive him crazy. He pulled her a little upright so he could get her windbreaker and top off.

She hadn't bothered with a bra for this night trip, and he gravitated immediately towards the soft, smooth mounds of her breasts. His hands fit around them, pretty rose-pink nipples perked against his palms. She reached up to pull his mouth back to hers and her tongue slid forward under his upper lip.

He thumbed over her nipples, rolling the little nubs between his fingers and reveling in the tiny noise she made before she let go of his mouth. He ducked to take a breast into his mouth, tasting her skin with his tongue.

"Ah—_Fang," _she gasped his name and he glanced up at her. Her hand moved to push her hair away from her neck, but she was utterly absorbed, teeth sunk into her lip.

"We're alone out here," he reminded her, kissing her sternum and moving to her neglected breast. Goosebumps popped up all over her chest, his saliva cooling her skin.

She breathed a little breathless laugh. He descended on her breast and the only thing he got out of her next was a breathy exhale, rather than some retort. He let his teeth graze her flesh and suddenly her pelvis jumped to meet his. He ignored his twitching cock and found the waistband of her running tights.

"Shit, this is gonna get cold," she panted, lifting her hips so he could slide her pants and underwear straight off her legs.

"Could move inside," he said, pulling off her socks.

"Heck no," she said as he tossed all of her clothes over next to his hoodie. "There's bonfire ash and cigarette butts all over the place in there. Only thing up here is the pine needles and the stars. You'll just have to warm me up."

She flushed, like she hadn't meant it to come out like that, but he was staring slack-jawed at her, laid bare before him under the stars.

"You're so beautiful," he mumbled, heartfelt and sincere. Her creamy skin lit under the twinkling stars and pale sliver of moon. The smile that stretched across her face just made the picture in front of him that much better, and he made sure to take a snapshot for his memories because he was pretty damn positive he'd never see such an ethereal sight again.

Max lifted a leg and pressed her toes into his hip. "Getting all sappy on me?"

Fang bent to kiss her. Her knees shifted open and pressed against his sides. Her fingers smoothed from the back of his neck down to the space between his wings and fire filled his veins when her fingernails scratched _that _spot.

He probed at her mouth, tasting her tongue, wrapped up in her completely and forgetting for a moment that he had hands he could use to touch her sides and thighs and knees. His fingers rubbed circles into her thighs around his waist and then her mouth suddenly wasn't enough. He needed to taste her, make love to her with his hands and his mouth and hear her gasp out in ecstasy.

Fang peppered suckling kisses from her mouth to her chin, over her collarbones, jutting out sharply with her heaving chest. He paused again to take each of her breasts into his mouth momentarily before continuing down to land just south of where he really wanted to be.

She smelled fantastic, a little mix of her own natural bubblegum-sweet scent combined with the strawberry shampoo that tended to double as body wash. The whole thing was topped off with the musky, tangy arousal slicking her soft folds wetly.

Fang flattened onto the quilt, gently pushing her thighs further apart and kissing each of them, circling closer to her center and enjoying her needy half-noises.

When he finally got his mouth on her, she was already pushing back against him, seeking friction and stimulation and _Christ_ she tasted like a small slice of heaven. She was heavy and heady and his tongue sought the source of her slippery need.

She was still somewhat restraining herself, her fist pressed to her mouth and he kissed her wet core. "Let go, Max," he told her, dragging a finger from the little bundle of twitching nerves at the apex of her thighs down to the inner lips that gripped him when she welcomed his flesh into her body. His digit dipped into her, hot sex enveloping him to his first knuckle. "Let me hear you."

And she did. Her fingers tugged at his hair as he let her feel the strength behind his hands. _Fuck,_ she was so responsive and gorgeous. It was a good goddamn thing he hadn't planned on this and brought a condom because otherwise he'd be naked by now and missing the sight of her pussy clenching around his finger, her back arching into the air thanks to his wandering tongue.

Her legs started shaking, thighs quivering up next to his face and that was the warning he got before her chin tipped up and she cried out into the air without restraint. Her hips rolled against his mouth and her walls clenched in waves.

He eased her back down to the quilt and kissed all the way back up her body while her little gasps slowed.

"Fuck _me,"_ Max breathed, tugging on his hair and slamming her mouth to his.

"I wish," he said back before her tongue invaded his mouth and swept all traces of her arousal from him.

Her hands weaseled down between them and she pulled open his belt, fingers on the button on his jeans. Her tongue withdrew and she looked up at him with a playful, flirty grin. "You don't have to wish when I'm right in front of you."

_Fuuuuuck, you're such an idiot, _he mourned inside his head before pulling back from her and shoving off his shoes anyway. He managed to finally get his shirt off his wings, too. "Didn't bring a condom," he said, kicking off his jeans and rolling back on top of her. "Didn't really plan any of this _at all_."

Quite frankly, he'd settle for ruining his boxers if he could just simulate thrusting into her. He could feel her heat through the cotton and he ground down into her.

She whimpered and wrapped her legs around him, squeezing the ever-living shit out of his sides. "Seriously? How are we supposed to have spontaneous sex?"

He rolled his eyes. His cock throbbed inside his boxers, shifting towards her, begging to plunge inside her soft body unclothed right under him. "We did once, remember? The table in the hall? Had the condom in my wallet and everything."

"Which you also didn't bring."

"Which…yeah," he said, kissing her chin. "We should stash a box here. And the quilt."

Max pushed against his chest and pitched his weight sideways and then she was on top of him, gloriously naked against the night sky. "We're twenty-two—almost twenty-three—and we're sneaking out of the house to have sex like teenagers."

She reached down and slipped her hand into the flap of his boxers, and her fingers wrapped around him. His hips stuttered and he groaned, her hand tight and hot on his sensitive, pulsing skin. He thrust into it without meaning to.

"We never got to be teenagers," he ground out, grabbing onto her hips to keep himself still while she worked her hand on him. Heat flared in his belly and spiked to the base of his dick. "And technically, we didn't sneak out to have sex."

She pulled his boxers down, shimmying down his legs to get them off and fling them over in their pile of discarded clothing. She bit her lip and considered him before bending at the waist and kissing the skin at his hip. He dropped his head back on the quilt to stare at the stars. She gave him a torturous kiss to the tip of him before pulling back and sitting up to stare at him again.

"What?" he pushed out. She ran her fingers very lightly up and down his shaft.

"We still could," she said slowly, passing her thumb over his leaking tip and spreading his pre-cum around the head of his dick. She leaned forward and kissed his jaw, pressing his erection into her stomach. "Have sex, I mean."

"Unless you feel like getting dressed or streaking naked back home to grab a condom—"

"I mean, obviously we can't make a habit out of it," she mumbled against his neck. At the same time, she slid up further and swiveled her hips, crotch slicking over him and sending a deep fucking shock of desire for her through his body.

"Max…" As _much_ as he wanted to know if it was possible for them to have a kid someday, as _badly_ as he wanted that to be a reality for them, neither of them were ready for it. She was still healing, he was still dealing with his guilt, Gunther-Hagen was still alive and hiding somewhere—

"I'm talking about just going to grab Plan B in the morning," she said, planting her hands on either side of his head and looking down at him. "I want you, and I _know_ you want me—"

She rolled her hips against him again and they both groaned. Her silky folds ensconced his shaft and then he felt the head of his cock rest at her entrance.

He sucked in a breath through his teeth and pressed his thumbs into her hips to stop her from moving.

"It's not as effective," he said, which was true. It was still ninety-five percent effective, but that was if they remembered in a few hours when the sun rose.

But Max just raised an eyebrow. "It's almost as effective," she said. "And you can pull out, too. If you want."

She was still sitting right on top of him. He drummed his fingers against her waist, looking into her shining eyes. They were full of trust and lit with need. He brushed a strand of her hair out of her face and behind her ear. The logical side of him warred with the horny side as it tried to tell him this wasn't a bad idea when there _were_ options.

The horny side won. He closed the space between their lips and took her mouth again, sucking on her sweet tongue. She went boneless on top of him, arms sliding out from underneath her. Her chest pressed to his and he could feel her racing heartbeat.

He ran his hands down her sides and over her back, threading his fingers into the feathers near the base of her wings. She unfurled them, sixteen foot wingspan spreading across the quilt on either side of them.

She lifted her hips, slipping a hand down between them to wrap around him again. Her next kiss was lingering, and then she sank down on him swiftly.

He expected to grab ahold of her hips to help her keep pace, maybe start some dirty talk that never failed to make her flush—but the moment her heat enveloped him, he nearly lost his composure.

They'd experimented with different types of condoms, sure. But even the extraordinarily thin ones he preferred didn't match the feeling of nothing but her.

He grunted, freezing on the quilt under her. He gripped her hips and held her fast. "Don't move. Seriously."

"What? What's wrong?" she asked, pulling her head up and away from where she'd trailed to his neck.

He pushed a breath through his nose, adjusting to velvety, hot flesh. "No condom," was all he was able to get out, and she looked down at him with a wide grin.

"Wish we didn't have to use them at all," she said, teeth seeking the skin of his shoulder while she waited for him.

Man, the first time they'd slept together without protection, he'd been more concerned about her comfort than anything else, especially because she'd been so tense. He also had nothing to compare to. Now he knew condoms were like trying to eat a lollipop with the wrapper still on.

The feeling of just _her _was seriously making it hard to control how much he wanted to flip her onto her back and rut into her. "Goddamn, Max."

She hummed and sat up, smoothing her hands over his chest. "You do feel different," she said, shifting on top of him almost experimentally. Her fingernails pressed into his skin. "You feel, like…_hotter_."

"So do you," he said, running his fingertips up her side until a breast was in his palm. He found that little button of leg-jerking fun between her legs with his thumb. She gasped, struggling not to move. He could feel so much more—the minute twitches as she adjusted, just how wet she was around him, each silken ridge of her. He closed his eyes and forced himself to focus. He rubbed her clit a little harder with his thumb and pushed up into her further.

Max took the cue, bracing her hands on him and beginning a slow, languid pace. She slid up and back down smoothly and his stomach clenched hard at how deep she could take him. He'd never get tired of the way it felt to be joined with her like this. Never.

She looked like a goddess above him, wings open and draped across the roof, eyes closed, brows furrowed in concentration. He met her halfway with each movement, savoring each sensation. She gripped him tightly, like she was _made_ for him, a perfect fit, and he couldn't help the growl that broke free from him.

"I swear, Max," he said, stealing one of her hands and pressing his lips to her palm. "Being inside you is one of the best fucking feelings."

She laughed breathlessly, falling a little forward and changing the angle. "I was just thinking the same thing. Except, you know, the other way around."

He was totally distracted by the way her breasts dangled right in front of his face. He cupped them both and she whined low in her throat.

He let her take over on the sex front for a little while he traced his fingers over each breast. She had just enough to fill his palms and honestly, that was all he wanted. He left sloppy, wet kisses all over them as they bounced a little with her movements.

She faltered, biting into her lip and pressing down into his lap. She squeezed him hard and he couldn't help it anymore.

He gripped her waist and turned them, rolling her on her back. She made a noise of protest into his mouth when he dove to kiss her.

"How do you expect me to pull out if you're on top of me?" he said, taking a moment to calm down a little. She rolled her eyes at him.

"You're crafty, you would have figured it out," she said. She lifted her ass from the blanket and crossed her ankles at his back. The movement pushed him deeper and he grunted. God, he loved when she did that, and she knew it, too.

"You're the best thing to happen to me," he said in her ear. "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Get a full night's sleep, for one," she said, running her nails down his sides and then throwing her head back when he hit a sweet spot. He slowed down a little nipped at the shell of her ear.

"I wouldn't trade anything for this, Max."

"Sex under the stars?" she asked, a laugh in her tone.

"A life with you," he said, and his heart ballooned in his chest. "The good and the bad. Sleep or no sleep, sex or no sex…you're stubborn and ridiculously good at making me talk and you're the love of my life," he whispered, filling her body with his words and himself.

She tried to respond but it got caught in her throat and she swallowed hard. He raised his head to look at her—and noticed she was crying.

He stopped immediately and concern flooded his chest. Fuck, what had he done? What was the trigger?

"Hey," he whispered, lacing his fingers with hers. "Max, sweetheart—"

Her eyes flew open and met his. She wasn't sobbing, or glazed completely from the scene; it was just a few tears streaking from the corners of her eyes down to her ears. "Why'd you stop?"

He wiped a tear from her skin. "Because you're crying."

She actually looked surprised, and she reached up to swipe at her face. Her chuckle confused him. She sniffed before wrapping both her arms around his shoulders and offering him a tiny, vulnerable smile. "It's nothing."

Anxiety crowded in with the concern. Even if she'd worked past it on her own, he needed to know so he didn't do it again accidentally—

"Max," he started, but she kissed him before he could get anything out.

"It's nothing," she said again when she pulled back. "I'm just…really happy. And I guess my body decided tears were the best way to express that."

He looked down at her skeptically. He'd never known Max to cry of _happiness_. But she pushed his hair from his face with her hand. "Keep going. Please," she requested softly.

She wasn't tense at all. She wasn't lying, and she wasn't hiding from him. This was her, baring it all, so happy that she couldn't keep it all inside.

He couldn't keep it inside anymore, either. He gathered her up in his arms and buried his face in her neck, mouthing at her skin with soft smacks before rocking into her again. It felt different now, less primal and more promising. He pushed into her as deep as he could, meeting her soul and receiving every emotion she poured out to him.

He never sped up, never bared down to push her over, never did anything more than tell her how much he loved her with his body.

He got lost in her. Instead of loud cries and stimulating moans, she was breathless, and he found he was, too. Her legs started their telltale shaking. He held her tighter and felt his body coil, right on the edge.

They fell together. Max clutched at him and her flesh clamped onto his. He pulsed at the same time, emptying himself into her with powerful spurts that he felt up his back and in his head. Her balmy walls drained him, fluttering with strong contractions and continuing for several long moments after he was spent.

He didn't want to pull out of her. It wasn't until then that he realized he hadn't; he'd been too absorbed in her and her exposed disposition to remember that had been his plan. Honestly though, he couldn't really even be all that upset about it when pulling away from her would have meant missing that simultaneous release.

She didn't seem inclined to move, either. He reached behind him to tug her ankles apart so he could roll them on their sides. He pulled her into his chest without slipping out of her.

It was a long while before either of them spoke. "Sorry I didn't pull out," he told her, trailing his knuckles down her smooth back.

Max shook her head against his chest. "Would have ruined it," she whispered.

Fang kissed her forehead and stretched behind her to grab at the excess length of quilt. He pulled it over her and tucked it behind himself, wrapping them up together.

She wiggled closer, tightening her leg around his hip. The runny sex leftovers finally started to dribble free between them and Max made a face. "Okay, that's one thing we don't have to worry about with condoms."

"That _you_ don't have to worry about," Fang said. He again stretched past her to grab at their clothing, sorting through it until he found his boxers. "I can go without my boxers, if you wanna…"

He dangled them over her and she rolled her eyes. "How romantic," she said, but she took them anyway and wormed her hand down between them. He finally slipped free from her.

"I'm gonna go pee and clean up a little," she said, pecking him on the lips. She wiggled out of his arms and the blanket before snapping out her wings to glide to the ground.

He watched her go, a little entranced by her pert ass covered in his underwear and nothing else.

Fang groped for his jeans and pulled his phone out of the pocket. It was just past three in the morning, and the bright screen destroyed what night vision he'd developed in the last couple hours. He blinked and tossed his phone back towards his clothes, then dropped onto his back.

By the time Max came back, he was seriously starting to get pretty chilly, despite the folded blanket.

"There's a little creek not too far from here," she said when she landed, his boxers in a ball in her hand. She tossed them near their clothes and wandered back over. "Freaking freezing in the middle of the night though."

"I can warm you up," he said with a grin, recalling her earlier words.

She climbed back into the blanket cocoon with him, half on top of him with her goosebump-covered leg squeezed between his. "I know you can," she said seriously. She tucked the blanket back around them and pressed her cool lips to his chest. "Mind if I sleep a bit?"

He shook his head and brushed his fingers through her hair. "Sleep as long as you want."

Max slowly drifted off, lethargic breaths caught in little snarls deep in her throat. Fang laid back and watched the sky continue to streak occasionally with light, never more content in his life.

* * *

**Had a few people asking if there were any more Fax scenes left. Like I said, I've had this one written for a while. I have one more, but that will come in a little. Please don't forget to review! And head over to Catalyst and review there, too. Faster those reviews come in, faster the epilogue goes up :)**


	18. Dylan's Letters - Nudge (T) 1 of 5

**DYLAN'S LETTERS, Part One**

Nudge couldn't sleep.

That had never been a problem for her. Sure, she had the occasional nightmare, the bouts of tossing and turning for fifteen minutes before slipping into blissful nothingness, but never had she sat awake for hours.

And really, it had been _hours_. Hours of crying silently into her pillow, hours of seeing Dylan's face again and again, hours of regretting the fact that she'd turned over in bed when Max shouted for Iggy and Fang because, surely, they could handle whatever the problem was.

She kept seeing the scene, over and over again. She replayed pulling herself out of bed when she heard Max counting quietly, and then Fang telling her 'stop, stop. Max, he's gone, stop.'

The scene Nudge had walked in on was Fang pulling Max away from Dylan, who didn't move at all. And then Iggy was there, his pale fingers gently probing at Dylan's pulse point.

In a flash, she had seen Angel. She saw Iggy's fingers feeling Angel's neck in the same way years ago, searching for a pulse he knew he wouldn't find. And Fang pulling Max away changed into Fang pulling Gazzy away from Angel's body.

And there she had been, once again, standing in shock as someone else left their lives.

"Stop, stop, stop," Nudge growled to herself. She turned over in bed. She pulled her pillow over her head and muffled a sob. God, she just wanted someone to talk to. Jackson was coming in tomorrow morning, but that seemed so far away.

The whole house was exhausted. She couldn't wake anyone up. Even if they weren't tired, no one ever talked about deaths anyway. It was like it didn't happen, didn't matter. She hated it. She hated it so much.

Nudge huffed angrily and tossed off her soft purple covers. She shoved her feet into her warm, fuzzy slippers and scratched at her hair. She moved into her bathroom and grumbled at her red, puffy face.

"God," she said, wiping her hands across her face. She looked like an allergy attack and a bad cold assaulted her face at the same time.

She leaned over the sink and splashed cold water in her face. She was shaky and aching and the water didn't help anything but cool her heated flesh.

"Ugh," she groaned into a hand towel, patting her face dry. She hated, hated, _hated_ this: the sickly aching, the want to cry, feeling so alone in it all.

She ended up in front of Dylan's room. First it had been Fang's, then Nightshade's after Fang moved into Max's room, and then it was Dylan's after Nightshade was arrested…

"Cursed," she muttered to herself. "This room is cursed, I swear."

She stared at the door and felt tears well up all over again.

Well, cursed wasn't entirely true. Fang was doing just fine, sharing a room with Max. And Nightshade was alive, even if he was upstate. Nudge twisted the doorknob and flicked on the light.

The room was the same as it has been a little less than twenty-four hours ago. The bed sheets were thrown down to the foot of the bed. Dylan's computer still sat open on the desk. A notebook was on the table next to the bed.

It looked like he was just not home. He was away on a flight, or down in the kitchen for a late-night snack.

Nudge hiccupped and pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. Her chest felt tight. She hadn't even said good-bye. The last thing she'd said to Dylan was that his jacket smelled like highlighters, on account of all the ones he kept in his pockets.

It was such a stupid last conversation. It wasn't meaningful, or poignant. It was mundane and insignificant and—

Nudge was crying again, just like that. She stepped into Dylan's room and shut the door softly. God, it even smelled like highlighters in his room. His trashcan had a bunch of them, and Nudge choked back another sob.

She sat at Dylan's desk and ran her fingers over the wood. It was so messy, cluttered with papers and pens. Chicken-scratch handwriting littered the pages, and Nudge squinted at them.

He had random information everywhere. He was trying hard to find Gunther-Hagen—last known locations, possible sightings, a crude network of known associates. Most of it didn't make much sense, notes in his own code. It hurt Nudge's heart to see all his work spread out like that.

He'd been so close. Just a few more hours, and Dylan would have that stupid doctor on his knees.

She wanted to punch something so bad. She wanted to punch the trees outside, and cry some more into her pillow, or just _talk_ to him one last time and tell him that they'd got him. Gunther-Hagen was captured, and Nudge wanted to see Dylan's young-old eyes light up with joy and cheer.

But she'd never see that again.

"I'm sorry, Dylan," she whispered, stacking his papers carefully. She organized his desk and moved the papers to the corner. She shut his laptop and set it aside.

Gross snot dripped from her nose and Nudge wiped it away with the back of her hand. She grimaced at the shiny slime and rummaged through Dylan's drawers for tissues.

What she found instead was a stack of envelopes.

She saw Max's name on the top in Dylan's familiar handwriting. Nudge wiped at her eyes and picked up the topmost envelope. Underneath was one with Fang's name.

She took the whole stack out and leafed through it. There were seven envelopes, all with the names of their small army of friends and family.

Were these…were these letters? To each of them?

Nudge bent over the envelopes, shuffling through them. She found hers, and her fingers skimmed over the dried ink.

She snorted through the snot and clogged nose. "Dylan, you're handwriting is _atrocious_."

She flipped the envelope and peeked in. A single sheet of paper sat inside, with more of the horrible handwriting.

Nudge's heart lurched. _This_ was her last conversation. One-sided, maybe, but she needed something better than _highlighters_.

Her fingers were shaking, and she had to blink a few times to clear her eyes.

_Nudge—_

_I'm finding you're the hardest one to write a letter for, which is weird. You'd think that would be Fang, or maybe Casey. But it's you, and I don't know why. _

_You're the easiest one to talk to. Well, that's not true. Nightshade is easier, for me, because I've been strategizing and planning and talking with him for the better part of two years now. _

_Maybe listening is the better way to say it. You're really easy to listen to, so maybe it's hard to just talk __at__ you with this letter. You talk about things with such enthusiasm, like your online coding class, or the X-Files, or just the way the shower spat cold water at you. Everything is a story when you talk. Everything is entertaining. There's this spark in your eyes that I've always seen, even when times get tough. _

_ Like that moment I showed you the security feed in the School, after snagging you from the hall. Well, and after I managed to convince you not to kick my ass._

_If it had been Fang or Iggy that was racing through those halls, I would have been punched to next Sunday without getting a word out. But you gave me a chance to explain that I really didn't deserve. Even then, my explanation was weak. It was self-pitying and broken, but you sucked in a breath, squared you shoulders, and had me point you to the camera system. _

Nudge clapped her hand over her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut.

He'd _saved_ her. Dylan had saved her from the hounds on her heels, from the horrible, disgusting Breeding experiment, from having to face what Max faced every day, every night.

And then he'd answered all of her burning questions, held nothing back when she'd asked how they could _make_ her do that with Fang, what imprints were, what she'd possibly tell Max and Fang when they finally all got free. How could she tell them about imprints? Would they even believe her?

But Dylan had that covered, too. He told her everything, that Max already knew about it, that she wouldn't think Nudge was crazy. He didn't try to protect her from the information—he'd just spilled it all, maybe because he knew she needed it, maybe because he couldn't lie, she didn't know.

Nudge dragged herself to Dylan's bed and curled up on the end of it. She clutched the paper in her hands, trying to read and seeing only blurry lines through her tears.

Her stomach hurt and her head was pounding. Her own muffled sobs sounded so ugly and loud to her ears, and she just let it go. She buried her face in the blankets and sobbed.

She didn't think her heart could hurt more. She didn't think her head would stop spinning, stop pounding, stop seeing Dylan's pale, dead face.

But it did. His written words ran in her head, and they eased things just a little bit, enough for her to wipe her eyes and steel her nerves and fumble with the drawers of Dylan's bedside table until she found a tissue box.

When she finally got up to throw her small stockpile of tissues away, Nudge breathed in deep, rubbed her hands on her pajama shorts, and dove back into the letter with a little bit of a lighter heart.

_I don't know many people that get second chances. It's only because of you that I got one. If you hadn't trusted me, even just a little bit, if you hadn't smoothed over everything, nothing might have mattered at all. We didn't expect you and Fang to break out of Maternity. Shade and I were trying to plan, trying to save you two from that…experiment. _

_ But you had it handled. _

_ Even after you got to work in my office, you just started talking. Narrating what you were doing with the security, piecing together patchwork code. I had no idea what any of it meant, but you made it the most interesting thing in the world. I don't know if it was meant to calm yourself down from everything that was happening, or to keep me in the loop, but I appreciate it either way. _

_You're smart, and talented. Ridiculously talented. Like, if you and Iggy went on some sort of miscellaneous skills tour, you'd probably leave people dazed and with forty less bucks in their wallet. With his slight of hand and your ability to distract and talk, you guys could take the shirt right off some guy's back and he'd probably thank you for it. _

_Whatever you do decide to do (whether it's the fashion merchandizing or the cyber security or something else entirely), I know you'll succeed. You're driven in ways that I wish I'd been. You throw your heart and soul into everything you do. _

_Most importantly, you don't give up. You don't let things get to you the way most people do. You confront them head-on. _

_And I hope you'll confront my death head-on, too. I know it's coming. I can feel it in my chest. I mean, that could be indigestion, which I seem to get every meal now, but I don't think it is. I figure if it's not you that finds these letters, then it'll be Casey if she moves in here. And if not Casey…_

_Well then these letters might take a while to be found. I just didn't want anyone coming across them while I was still alive. That would be awkward. _

_ So please. Help everyone though it. I know you can._

_\- Dylan_

Nudge crossed her legs under her, a war brewing in her chest. He wanted her to confront his death, not hide from it. He wanted her to help everyone through it, because he had to know that everyone else pushed it aside, pretended it didn't happen. He had such nice things to say about her, such a pretty way of looking at all her emotional outbursts and prattle that often got her more annoyed glances than anything else.

But he'd liked it. He'd appreciated her incessant nervous babble inside the School, when her heart had raced and her blood had burned with fire and fear. She was very, very good at typing and talking, and she couldn't help blabbing each keystroke, each movement. It kept her in the moment. It kept her from thinking.

She'd thought it was annoying, probably. But as it turned out, it had helped him, too.

Nudge sniffed and blew her nose, then reread the letter. She read it again and again, until the image of dead Dylan faded into the one that had yanked her into that room in Section B. He'd been calming and gentle, and she wanted to remember him like that. She didn't want to see him dead and pale; she wanted to see him determined and kind like he had been that day, and most of the days since they'd all come home.

She nodded her head. That was how she'd get through this. She could still cry, and she could still feel the hurt and the pain, but she could at least remember him the _right _way.

And dammit, she was not going to do it alone. Not this time.


	19. Dylan's Letters - Jackson (T) 2 of 5

**DYLAN'S LETTERS, Part Two**

Jackson groaned and groped for his glasses. His phone buzzed again and fell off his bedside table.

"Fuckin'—" he cursed, trying not to escape the warmth of his blankets as he stretched for the phone. It was only nine at night, but he'd been up a few nights in a row.

He saw Nudge's name on the screen. It was _probably_ important.

Or she was going to rant on and on about Catwoman again, and while he usually agreed that her backstory was more-or-less a generic—

He shook his head out and stretched further. The fitted sheet on his bed gave up and popped off near his feet. The whole sheet slipped and he toppled to the floor.

"_Ah_—goddammit!" He rubbed his smarting elbow, snatched his phone, and pressed answer. "Hello?"

There was silence for a second. Jackson frowned. He usually never even _finished_ the word 'hello' before she was talking.

He sat up. "What's wrong? Something's wrong."

Her voice was watery. "Are you alone?"

He wasn't really involved in the whole FBI-shiz. They'd offered him a job, but, fuck—he was done with secret organizations and all that. So when she called, he generally had to be alone so that any classified information she gave him (which she could get fired for) wasn't overheard.

"Yeah," he said, reaching to untangle his legs. He kicked out of the blankets. "What happened?"

"Last night," she started, sniffing through a clogged nose. "Last night, Max and Nightshade interrogated Bracken."

"Nightshade was out of jail?"

"That's…Jackson…"

She started crying. He glanced at the clock. It was a three hour drive. He could be there in two. "I'm driving down there."

"No, don't," she said through her tears. "I'm still at the FBI for who knows how much longer. I just needed to hear your voice."

Jackson's chest swelled. Everything he'd heard about his little sister from within the School's walls had pretty much made him doubt he'd ever get a friendly word from her.

But she was Nudge, and she was forgiving. She was reasonable and fantastic and he wanted to hug her close to his chest and make her feel better. "Well, here I am."

He could hear her swallow hard. That's how upset she was. Her throat was thick. "I shouldn't be telling you this, but with everything that's happened today, I need to."

He didn't want to ask. He really, really didn't. "Did Bracken hurt someone? Did he hurt Max or Shade?"

"No," she answered. "No, he…he actually gave us something we could use. Something we did use. Jackson, we got Gunther-Hagen."

"You're shitting me," he said, jumping up and clutching the phone hard. "You did not."

"We did."

He wanted to shout it out his apartment window. He wanted to run down the hall and knock on all the doors, proclaiming success. He'd gotten to move back into his apartment after Max went to the FBI, but now he didn't have to wonder if an Eraser would show up and shove claws into his intestines.

But then Nudge sniffled again.

"You're crying," he said, sinking again to the floor. "You're crying—and it doesn't sound like happy tears. Come on, girl, you're killing me here. What's wrong?"

"Can you come down in the morning? I don't know what time we'll be back tonight, and I know it takes you a while to come down but—"

"I'll be there," he said, pushing up again and rifling through his drawers. He tossed some graphic tees onto his bed. "I really can be there tonight—"

"There's something else," she said, quiet. Nudge was never quiet. She was only ever bouncy and ecstatic or bone-dead tired. Never _quiet_. "Jackson, Dylan is dead."

* * *

Jackson stared out his windshield, watching the road but not really seeing it.

He'd seen Dylan's test results after Gunther-Hagen figured out the cell regeneration thing. He wasn't a doctor by any means, but he knew it meant Dylan wasn't going to make past the next couple of years.

Jackson shook his head out and rubbed his eyes. He hadn't slept at all after getting off the phone, and he'd just wanted to drive down right then and there. But Nudge didn't know when they'd be done debriefing at the FBI, so she'd just told him to come down in the morning.

He'd waited until about five and then he couldn't stand being alone in his apartment anymore. Over the last decade, he'd been alone a lot. He worked in tech security—it came with the territory. He was used to dark, cold rooms to keep servers in top working condition. He was used to having more computers than friends.

That had changed a little in the past three years. As soon as Max had broken free from the School, he got to work. And after six months of gathering enough information to start recruiting people, the first one he'd gone to was Dylan.

And now Dylan was dead.

He wasn't the first one to die. That honor went to Green. Dr. Oliver Green, the ophthalmologist from Ridgecrest, forty-six years old and unmarried. Jackson felt his death everyday—he was the reason the man was dead, after all. Because he'd been a fucking idiot, he'd been so, so dumb to send an email through to the doctor after getting impatient with the fact that their schedules were so different.

There was so much death around him, all the time. But usually, it was experiments. It wasn't colleagues, or friends.

Now, it was everyone. And his oldest ally was dead.

When Jackson pulled up to Max's house, Nudge slammed into him practically before he could get out of the car. She was in his lap and sobbing into his shoulder. He didn't do anything but wrap his arms around her much smaller frame and bury his face in her hair.

* * *

Jackson wasn't a patient person. As soon as Nudge handed over his letter, he ripped right into it.

"Do you…wanna be alone?" Nudge asked while he shook the letter free.

"Not particularly," he mumbled. "C'mere. Sit." He patted the bed next to him. They were in her room, and he internally squirmed at all the girlish shit all over the place. He was glad though to see she'd started a small pile of comic books and graphic novels. "I want you here, sis."

She sank down next to him, crossing her legs under her on the coverlet. She leaned her head on his shoulder and he wrapped an arm around her while he read.

_Jackson—_

_We both know this has been coming. I forwarded all my results to you as soon as I got them, and we both knew it meant I didn't have a lot of time. Heavily dependent on cuts and bruises and other unexpected injuries, of course, but I know for sure that it's coming now. _

_I'm pretty sure it's my heart. That was one of the things Hans flagged on my physical, so I've been paying attention to it. That and my legs, since there was that partial clot a year ago, but those have been fine. _

_Ever since my arraignment, I get these phantom pains like someone's reaching into my chest and squeezing. Just for a split second, and then it stops. _

_Stress triggers was something Hans told me to look out for, and nothing says 'stress' like being arrested. Like seeing Max nearly get arrested for her part. Like hunting down a psychopath and chasing lead after lead. It's all stress, these days. It's been stress since the day I was born, if I'm honest. _

Guilt made its appearance then. Jackson had depended on Dylan as his second-in-command, the Robin to his Batman. Dylan was the one to run everything if he needed to take off. And take off, he did. God, he'd put so much stress on Dylan's shoulders, so much responsibility.

Nudge looped her arm through his. "We should have made him take it easier."

"He would have hated that," Jackson said. "He beats himself up for sitting by and doing nothing all those years ago."

Nudge blew a soft raspberry. "I guess you're right." A humorless laugh passed her lips. He didn't like how it sounded on her. "You knew him a lot better than we did."

Jackson rubbed her arm briskly and went back to reading.

_I wanted to thank you. I know I've said it a thousand times since you first came up to me and told me you were exposing the School, but I'm saying it again. Without you, I don't know if the School would have fallen. You united those of us who wanted it. Each Eraser, each scientist that felt things were wrong, you sniffed them out at great personal risk and united us. _

_Without you, I might have died in that building. Whether it was around the same time as now, or years from now, I don't know. But I wouldn't have ever been able to leave. And I definitely wouldn't have the number of friends and family I have now without you, either. _

_I owe you everything, and there's no way I could ever pay you back, even if I had the time. I hope you can relax now that everything is done, and enjoy your life free with your sister. You deserve it._

_Thank you again. And again, and again._

_\- Dylan_

"Aw, fuck," Jackson said quietly. His nose burned and his eyes stung and he knew he was going to weep like a frickin' baby. Nudge had started crying long before the letter was done, and Jackson found himself sucking in a breath with the effort not to join her. He couldn't remember the last time he'd actually, really cried. He didn't count his sensitivity to movies and comics.

He let his letter flutter to Nudge's bed and then she was pulling him into her arms. _She_ was comforting _him_, wrapping him in her tiny embrace. "It's okay, Jackson," she said. "It's okay to cry."

He didn't know why, but the permission to just break down shattered him. He'd had so much responsibility on his shoulders for years, so much terror of being found out, of being killed by the Limerick Killers in his effort to save one of its main members.

Now his friend was dead and the mad-man who'd created him was arrested. Max was safe, the Limerick Killers were dead, and he could really, truly relax.

It was all topped off with his baby sister holding him close; his baby sister that reminded him so much of their mom, with her soothing voice and strong arms and all over again he mourned all the time everyone had lost to the School.

He hugged Nudge tight and swore to himself that he would never, ever let this girl go.


	20. Dylan's Letters - Casey (T) 3 of 5

**DYLAN'S LETTERS, Part Three**

"Here," Nudge said quietly, handing Casey a thin envelope.

"What's this?" she asked. She didn't reach to take it.

"It's from Dylan. To you," she said, persistent. "I found them last night."

"Uh—" Casey tried. She barely got her fingers on the envelope before Nudge walked off with a sniffle.

Casey had no idea what Dylan could possibly want to say to her. They barely spoke when he was alive.

And sure, it was sad, she guessed. Casey wasn't…the greatest with emotions. Anything too much for her, and she tended to shut down these days. Her alters had taken care of the things she couldn't handle, once upon a time.

Her real alters. Not Gunther-Hagen's fucked up, experimental—

Casey gritted her teeth and felt her extra set of ears press flat to her head. She tried to think of what Karina would do.

Karina had been her 'child' alter. That's what Gunther-Hagen had called her. Karina dealt with the sadness and the abuse and the extreme mood swings. She shoved Casey aside with stubborn childishness and made herself a very effective emotional sponge.

Now, forced to deal with death for real…

Casey didn't know how to do it. Karina though—Karina liked to rip off the Band-Aid.

Casey shoved her fingers in the envelope and yanked out the letter.

_Casey— _

_ Okay, you, I don't even know. Well, I know some. From Gunther-Hagen's notes, mostly. Which doesn't really seem fair, because those are observations he made about you while you were under his thumb, so that just feels like an invasion. _

_ I'm just going to go off things I know from actually living alongside you. _

_ I know you're stubborn. You don't trust easily (hell, which of us does?). You're very quiet. Seriously, you could give Fang a run for his money, and I'm pretty sure it's only because he's aged quite a few years that he isn't so stone silent anymore. Really, you should have seen him at fifteen. You two could have passed for siblings. _

_I also know you're also scared of your father. _

Casey grimaced. She was _annoyed_, not scared. Frank had called her a _Limerick Killer_. He'd called her Cassava, for shit's sake. Casey grumbled under her breath and ignored the fact that Spencer had found her in the stairwell right after her father's accusation, clutching onto a handrail for dear life.

_ Believe me when I say I'd kill to have your dad. So would a lot of the others. Iggy, for one. His parents were dicks. Max's dad is on par with Gunther-Hagen. Nudge and Fang don't even __know__ their dads. Nightshade's DNA is just a mix of ridiculous breeding materials. And you know Spencer's family is fucked up. _

_ You probably don't want to hear it, but you're lucky. He hasn't been pushing you hard. He hasn't been prying into your life or your head. He assigns other agents to you whenever you need to debrief, just to keep you comfortable._

Well, that was…true. She hadn't ever been alone with him unless it was on her terms. She'd asked for space—and he'd given it.

And she still hadn't met her mother yet…

Casey picked at the midnight blue polish on one nail. She'd made a half-baked promise yesterday to go to their home for dinner just before leaving to capture Gunther-Hagen. She'd be stepping into a place completely foreign to her, with two people that probably wanted to know her inside and out.

Problem was, the inside was fucked up. The inside was full of someone who didn't know how to handle anything but anger, because every time fear or anxiety or pain got too much—Casey was gone, and Karina was there, or Damien, or Lola. Or, they had been. They had been there for her, until Gunther-Hagen swept them all away and left her filled with so much emotion that the easiest way to deal with it was to not deal with it at all.

Her parents had walked into the hospital expecting to walk out with a healthy baby girl.

Instead, they got eighteen years of pain followed by their long-lost daughter crash-landing into their lives only 93 percent human with a case of reverse-DID.

Talk about fucked up. No one wanted that.

Casey could feel the way her throat burned.

_ Your father looks at you like you're some kind of gift from God, _Dylan's letter continued. _He looks at you the way a parent __should__ look at their child. Not with experimentation or monetization in mind, but with love. And you probably don't see that. Not yet, anyway._

_ I know it's hard to trust. It's hard to believe that someone only wants you __for you__, no strings attached. But your father didn't grow up the way we did. He isn't Gunther-Hagen. He isn't an Eraser, or a drunk on the streets of Vegas. He's a fed with a good heart that wants to know you. That wants to love you._

_ Let him. _

_ \- Dylan_

If only it were that easy. If only she could open herself up like that, just give up all her reservations, all her safeguards and let someone in that way, but she was completely unable—

"Case?"

Casey turned her head and there was Iggy standing in the kitchen doorway.

"How'd you even know I was in here?" she muttered.

"The walls are off-white," he said. "Your particular blob of color is much smaller than the other blobs of color. Plus, you smell different."

Casey rubbed her nose and sat back in her chair. "Oh."

Iggy grinned, his lips pulling over his teeth in a way that reminded her of the sun rising. She wanted to paint that expression so bad, but he liked to touch everything she put on her walls.

Casey flushed at the thought of Iggy's careful fingers finding his own face on her wall.

"So I was wondering," he said sauntering over with his hands in his pockets. He towered over her, leaning one pale hand on the back of her chair. "You told Frank you'd go over for dinner."

Casey's raw, unbaked emotion roiled around again like the bad chicken she'd made once. "That was stupid," she muttered.

"I don't think it was," he said. He lifted one of his hands and ran his finger over the tip of one of her cat ears. For no good reason, she curled her toes in her shoes at his casual touch. He did that a lot—pushed into her personal space in a way that was both surprising and gentle. He didn't touch her ears because they were different—he touched them because he liked the way they felt on his sensitive fingertips. At least, that was what he'd told her.

"I think it was a good decision," he continued after he'd taken his hand away. "But I was wondering if you wanted someone to come with you. I could scope out the place. Or, well…I could listen to the way footsteps bounce off the walls and try to get a mental picture, but you know what I mean. It would be less intense, I think, if you're not alone."

Casey was alarmed to find herself crumbling like a cookie.

And then that was when she realized how dumb she was. She'd totally let Iggy in since they'd all rescued her. She'd opened herself up to another person.

She wasn't unable to open up, like she'd thought. She just…had a really hard time. But she could do it. Iggy was proof of that.

It wouldn't be easy, doing the same for her parents. They weren't like her and Iggy—they were human, and normal. They didn't know how horrible life had been. They would ask uncomfortable questions, and they'd probably piss her off a lot.

Casey glanced back down at Dylan's letter. She wasn't an experiment to her parents. She was their daughter. The only thing they wanted, like Dylan had said, was to get to know her. Anger and all.

The task was daunting, but she didn't have to do it alone. Casey folded her letter back into its envelope and poked Iggy in the side. "Sure. That would really help, Iggy."


	21. Dylan's Letters - Iggy (T) 4 of 5

**DYLAN'S LETTERS, Part Four**

Iggy tapped his fingers against denim-clad legs. He couldn't smell the acrylic paints—those were odorless—but he could smell the ammonia in what Casey had put on the wall before her paints. She'd called it acrylic gesso, and yes, the smell was super fucking gross. She had a fan running and the window was open, but it was the first time she was actually trying the gesso stuff, so Iggy wasn't used to it.

He felt her shift. "You know, the tapping is more distracting than helpful."

He grinned and stilled his fingers. "Sorry. I have 'Eye of the Tiger' stuck in my head."

"Of course you do."

"Blame Spencer," he said. "He had it on loop while doing his physical therapy with Max."

She snickered quietly. Her laugh wasn't traditional—it sounded rusty, unused, like it was new on her lips. That sound was delicious and rare and Iggy was all over that like a starving man on a piece of friggin' pie.

Her fingers tapped his head. "Okay," she mumbled and it sounded like she had something clutched between her teeth. "Hold out your right hand."

Iggy did, releasing one of her legs and offering a hand. The smooth wood of her paint palette met the skin of his palm. He remembered her desk was a foot behind him, and he leaned a little to set it down.

Like the little ninja acrobat she was, Casey dropped from his shoulders where she'd been perched to paint up near the ceiling.

"How's it look?" he asked. She let him touch her paintings to 'see' them, but unless he really wanted to fuck them up, he had to wait until they were dry.

"Perfect," she said back. Her slight vocal fry was like a purr and he had to physically stop himself from asking her to just talk forever. "You were right about the turquoise over the sea-green."

Iggy's grin faltered a little bit. He'd kind of totally forgotten what she was painting in favor of helping her actually _reach_ the space she wanted. "Yeah?"

He heard the rustle of her clothing as she bent to pick up bottles of paint and discarded brushes on her floor. He tried to concentrate on that instead of the gnawing guilt in his gut. It sat like Max's bad cooking.

"Hey," she said from the direction of her desk. "Out of curiosity—"

"You know what they say about curiosity and cats." He jumped for the joke immediately and was rewarded with something lobbed at his head. He chuckled and fumbled to catch the object as it caught in the folds of his hoodie. "Yeah, sure, throw things at the blind guy."

The object was long and thin, and the color flashed in his head—bright orange. Carrot orange, Casey would probably call it. Iggy recognized the shape and the soft bristles as a paintbrush and he made a show of tucking it behind his ear—out of her reach, unless she wanted to jump for it.

"_Out of curiosity_," she said again, "what did Dylan's letter say to you?"

And Iggy's joking mood was gone again. "Why?"

"Do I have to say curiosity a third time?" she grumbled. "I've just been thinking about the letters, that's all. Which led to thinking about Dylan, which led to the painting."

Iggy grimaced and sunk down onto her bed. It had been a week since Dylan had died, and Casey was the first to come to terms with it. Made sense, seeing as she didn't really know Dylan all that well.

To remember him, she wanted to paint something. Casey had a thing for eyes—it was her favorite feature to paint, she said—so she was going to paint Dylan's first before moving onto the rest of them. But because she'd never get the chance to study Dylan's eyes again in real life, she was starting with him, while the image was still fresh.

And of course, like the lovesick idiot he was, Iggy offered to help.

"Iggy?" Casey snapped him out of his thoughts.

"Sorry," he mumbled. He flopped onto his back on her bed and sighed. "Look, Dylan and I…we didn't get along."

There was a pause, and Iggy played with the black-and-red striped sheets on her bed. He alternated between the stripes, the colors flashing in his head as his fingers bumped over each thread.

"I didn't know that," she said eventually. "You two seemed fine to me."

"That's because you weren't here when we first got out. Something…happened," Iggy said.

She came to sit next to him on the bed. "And, what, his letter was him yelling at you or something?"

Iggy sighed and turned his head, trying to pinpoint her face. "I haven't read his letter yet."

He fidgeted while he waited for her response. He was such a pussy, avoiding it. What could Dylan possibly want to say except 'thanks for almost killing me, you crazy, blind jerk?'

Nothing. He and Dylan just existed around each other, ignoring the giant elephant in the room.

It didn't matter if Dylan had put the gun in his hands first. It didn't matter that Dylan had told him to do it. Iggy could remember the shape of the gun in his hand, the weight. It was cold and so lethal, and his hands felt dirty whenever he remembered that moment.

"What happened?" Casey asked.

He felt raw and exposed, and he kind of didn't want to talk about this at all. He'd had a low point. A very, very low point, and Casey had already seen him get there once with Aconite in that warehouse. He didn't want her to know about the gun incident, too. He didn't want her to see just how low he could go.

"You're never this quiet," she said. She shifted and then he felt her lie back, her shoulder in line with his. "Iggy, what happened?"

It was like she reached into his lungs and drew the answer right out of him. Iggy shut his eyes. "I tried to kill him."

She was quiet for a second too long, and he started babbling like Nudge.

"It was right after we got back from the School, right after my Alter was erased. I couldn't understand why Dylan had been working there and I just _flipped_. And then he pulled Bane's gun and handed it to me and told me to shoot him—and I _did_. I did, Casey—and—"

"Okay, okay," she said, her quiet voice way more soothing than it should be. "But you didn't kill him."

"I just…what could he possibly want to say to me?" Iggy said. "I already feel so bad about it, and I can't ever say sorry. I can't ever tell him I never should have pulled the trigger, or even taken the gun. It was pure fucking luck that the gun was unloaded."

"How do you even know his letter is going to be him yelling at you?" she asked. "Maybe he thought the same thing, you know? That he wanted to say sorry?"

Iggy just shrugged miserably. Better the be in the dark than deal with the possibility of feeling more like shit.

"Mine told me to let Frank in," she said. She turned on her side, to face him, he was pretty sure. "He told me how lucky I was, compared to everyone else. He pointed out how much Frank does for me to keep me comfortable. And then you just happened to walk in right after I finished reading. You offering to come plus Dylan's letter is why we're going to their place for dinner at all."

And that was to someone Dylan barely knew. Iggy fiddled with the sheets in one hand and pulled the paintbrush from behind his ear with the other.

"He was leaving his last words," she said. "I didn't know him, not really. But I don't think someone who knows they're dying wants to hold onto more anger than they already have. I think they just want to make things right. He wanted to make things right between me and my dad. Maybe he wanted to make things right between the two of you, too."

Iggy opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, really not in the mood to keep this conversation going. Casey hadn't painted anything on her ceiling yet, and it was stark white. He lifted the paintbrush against it and traced the blobby orange figure that appeared to him.

His ability to see against white was a blessing and a curse. He could see, sometimes. Better than nothing at all. But what he saw wasn't clear. He could remember seeing so much better before the Whitecoats fucked it all up. Now, he could only make out vague shapes and colors. It was all very blurry. Too much static, not enough reception.

A creamy hand appeared to take the paintbrush from him, and then Casey was hovering in his vision instead. Her hair was a blended black mass, but he knew she had curls for days from the time she'd let him map her face, the way he did with everyone.

And her hair was soft. It brushed his neck when she leaned over him. "I think you should read it. You told me to give Frank another chance after Dylan got arrested. Now I'm telling you to give this a chance."

God, how could he _possibly_ say no when she was that close? When he could smell her spiced vanilla shampoo and feel the warmth of her arm against his side?

Iggy had to shut his eyes again. "Okay," he said. He could stop reading it if he needed to.

"Where is it?" she asked, and Iggy told her where he'd stashed the envelope in his desk. She disappeared for a few minutes and Iggy quietly freaked out inside his head.

The door creaked open again to signal her return. "There's a USB in here, so I brought your computer with," she said, climbing back onto the bed.

He thought he'd felt something funny inside it, but he'd put the whole thing out of his mind as soon as possible.

He heard her open the envelope and the crinkle of paper as she pulled out the letter. He knew he'd have to get someone to read his to him, and he couldn't help bobbing his knee. He hated needing help, but his white-vision was too blurry for letters on a page.

Iggy took a breath that was supposed to feel cleansing—instead he felt like he was inhaling a bad fart.

"Oh," Casey said, and Iggy immediately felt himself sink further into her mattress. It was bad. It was totally him getting yelled at. "Uh, well, he took care of the whole reading thing. '_To whoever is reading this for Iggy, his letter is on the flash drive inside this envelope. I recorded his for him._'"

A rush of…_something_ filled his lungs. "He recorded his letter?"

She fiddled with his computer, and he heard her clicking around on the track-pad. "Just saying, I don't think he would have bothered if what you're about to hear is bad." She put a hand on his knee. "Do you want me to leave?"

"No," he said. He sat up and took her hand. "Just start it."

Casey didn't question him.

The soft click of the recording beginning was the first thing on the audio file. Then, Dylan start speaking. His voice was quiet, reserved. Not tear-clogged or pitiful. Just resigned.

"_Okay, so we aren't really all that great of friends_," Dylan started off. "_I mean, you held a gun to my head. Well…a gun that I put there…_"

Dylan trailed off and sighed softly. Iggy grimaced.

"_We're all kind of fucked up. And we never really talked about that incident so much as just let it sort of float into nonexistence, but I just wanted to let you know that I never should have put you in that position. I was tired. I was discouraged because we didn't have much in terms of a lead._"

A breath that could have been a humorless laugh came next. "_Hell, I'm still both of those things. But I shouldn't have taken it out on you. I get where you come from. I didn't leave Gunther-Hagen. I could have. I wasn't handcuffed to a desk or confined in a cage. I wasn't under his 'control' to the point of not having free will. And I'm not going to offer any excuses. I stayed because Gunther-Hagen had the resources to find someone I loved._"

His voice got a little harder, a little strained. "_And, well, he found her alright._"

The audio cut and restarted, like Dylan had to stop for one reason or another. Iggy reached out and found the space bar to pause the recording.

Casey squeezed his hand. "Okay?"

"Yeah," he said, a little hoarse. "Fuck, I just…I didn't expect this. Dylan always had an excuse. Or, at least, I just took everything he said as an excuse."

"You were looking for any reason to hate him," she said quietly. "Any reason not to trust him."

Iggy rubbed his forehead and then leaned forward to resume the recording. When it restarted, Dylan's voice was back to resigned.

"_I don't know you real well, and that's always been one of my biggest regrets. You're one of the few genuine people I've ever met. You speak your mind. You tell people exactly what's up, and you don't hesitate to get in their face. I honestly feel that if I'd stuck around after Max left, we would have actually been good friends."_

Aw, fuck. He was totally going to break down. Iggy squeezed his eyes shut tight and kept listening.

"_You can do literally whatever you want,_" Dylan continued._ "You cook in an industrial kitchen as it is, you somehow have Casey attached to your hip, you work alongside some of the most skilled agents the FBI can send, and you haven't missed a single step. Sometimes, I forget that you're blind. It makes me a little bit jealous, because you just seem so naturally good at things. While being a genetically engineered, once-Altered, School-raised avian hybrid. It's really not fair._"

Dylan laughed, and Iggy's soggy one followed. "_I kid. Sort of. I'm just rambling on at this point. It's easier to do that when I'm talking, instead of writing. My hand cramps pretty easily these days. Even typing sucks ass. I don't know if it's carpel tunnel or arthritis or what, and honestly I don't really want to look up what else is wrong with me._"

The audio was quiet for a moment or two. Dylan inhaled, then let it out slowly. "_I know how much you love your family. I see it in every action. The cooking, the talking, hell even the 'getting in their face' thing. You do it because you love them. And I want to make sure you keep doing that. It woke me up, when you pulled that trigger._

"_Now I'm not saying aim guns at everyone_," Dylan said quickly. "_Obviously. At least, I hope that's obvious. But that protective…whatever it is that makes you snap like that is something I wish I'd faced a long time ago. Maybe it would have changed things, if I had someone to call me on my bullshit years ago. Maybe the Limerick Killers wouldn't have happened. Maybe I wouldn't have aged so fast. Maybe I wouldn't be dying so soon._"

A shuddering breath distorted the audio. "_Sorry. Too close to the mic. I don't really know how to end this letter. I just really appreciate the little time you were in my life, Iggy. Even if we didn't get along for most of it._"

The recording ended.

The silence immediately after was so thick with feeling that Iggy could feel it pressing in on him.

Dylan didn't hate him. Dylan didn't even _dislike_ him.

He'd wished they could have been friends.

"See?" Casey said. "That wasn't—"

Iggy pulled Casey into his arms so fast that she actually made an _oof_ sound. He didn't give two shits about how dopey that probably looked, or how much he was squeezing her. "Holy fuck, Case."

"Squishing me," she choked back. "What the hell—"

The literal only way he could express his intense relief at that moment was through another person. "God, Dylan, if there is such a thing as the afterlife, and you can see us or whatever, know that that is the best shit I've heard in a long-ass time."

Casey slumped with a sigh. "Any way you could _not_ crack my ribs?"

Iggy chuckled and let go of her. "Sorry. Sorry, it's just a huge load off." And really, his chest did feel so much lighter. Her rusty laugh came again and Iggy dropped back onto his back on her bed. "God, now I'm _exhausted_. Never knew how much worrying about this was bothering me."

He heard Casey shut the laptop and set it on the floor. "I can tell, jeez. I need a chiropractor now."

"You're more bendy than a crazy straw. I didn't do shit to your back," Iggy laughed. Casey flicked his sternum and then settled next to him.

"Thanks for letting me listen," she said after a moment. "You all have so much history. It's hard to feel like I fit in, sometimes."

What Iggy _wanted_ to say was something along the lines of 'you fit right into my side just perfect' but that was so sappy he wanted to barf just thinking it.

But it was true. She did things to him no one else did, and he had no idea how long it would have taken him to work up the courage to open Dylan's letter without her push.

So he pulled her into his side. "You fit right here."

Iggy really was exhausted, and when Casey didn't move away, or make a comment that indicated she was uncomfortable, he fell asleep right there.

He only got an hour of sleep between that moment and the one where Jeb made his appearance in the backyard with a box of files, but it was the best hour of sleep Iggy could remember having in a long, long time.


	22. Dylan's Letters - Fang (T) 5 of 5

**DYLAN'S LETTERS, Part Five**

Fang tapped his envelope back and forth between his fingertips at the desk in his and Max's room.

Dylan's sketchy handwriting stared up at him, the four simple letters of Fang's name beckoning him to open the thin envelope.

He didn't know what to expect inside it. He'd put it off for a few hours since Nudge had handed it to him that morning. He'd helped Max strip the sheets from Dylan's bed to throw in the wash instead, then assisted Iggy with a grocery list, because doing something normal felt necessary for his sanity.

There were a lot of feelings to deal with. There was accomplishment in the fact that he hadn't beaten Gunther-Hagen to death. That he'd helped keep the doctor alive when Max's sniper shot otherwise would have ended the man's life.

Then there was also the weird, limbo-y sadness. The sadness that lingered on the edges of being almost despondent. They should be celebrating. Gunther-Hagen's capture should have been news worthy of breaking out champagne and finger food.

But clouded with Dylan's death, it just wasn't.

Fang leaned back in the desk chair and winced a little as he bumped his shoulder. He rubbed the aching muscle under his collarbone and toyed with the unsealed flap of his envelope.

Finally, he sighed and pulled out the contents. The letter was written on lined paper with large, scrawling handwriting that bunched close together. He didn't expect it to be long, and it wasn't. Barely a page.

_Fang – _

_Before I picked up a pen, I thought it would be hard to write a letter to you. But as it turns out, I know exactly what I want to say._

_You said it yourself, once. We started off on the wrong foot. I only knew what I was told, and that was the whole thing with Max. And you were in the way of that goal so, logically, you had to go. _

_ I was naïve. _

_I saw how upset she was when you left, and I knew how she was living when you all were apart, thanks to surveillance. I was delusional, I think, to believe that I could be the knight in shining armor. _

_But that's always been you. _

Fang grimaced. He was no knight in shining armor. Dylan was twenty shades more heroic than he was, if working alongside Jackson and risking his life inside the school for them all was any indication.

Still, it was nice to hear that someone had a high opinion of him, especially when that person was Dylan.

_I see how happy she is now. I see how happy you are. You two are a cohesive unit, and I will always be jealous of that. I can't help it. You know I can't help it._

_That being said, I can't thank you enough for convincing me to stay that night after the whole Iggy incident. Living with Jackson wouldn't have been horrible by any means, but I got to experience so much more than just living away from the School by staying._

_I know I haven't done anything to earn it, but I have a favor to ask. _

Haven't done anything to earn it, his ass. Fang pursed his lips. Without Dylan, they'd all still be stuck in the School. Things would have gotten so much worse. He owed Dylan so much more than a simple favor.

_Shade's letter isn't addressed to the prison, because I wasn't sure how to go about doing that considering how different his confinement is compared to other inmates. I'd really appreciate it if you could find a way to get his to him. I found something I thought he'd want, so that's in there, too. _

_I don't really know how to thank you aside from just saying it. And that feels so laughably inadequate, but it's all I have. So thank you. For everything._

_\- Dylan_

Fang heaved a sigh and reread the letter to commit it to memory. Of course, he'd find a way to get Nightshade's letter to him. It was the absolute least he could do, and someone needed to tell Nightshade anyway about Dylan's passing.

The bedroom door opened and Max came through. Her face was drawn, and she gave him a sad little smile. "Hey. You read yours?"

"Yeah," Fang said. He folded his letter back up and leaned back in the chair.

"The uh…the place—crematorium, whatever—they called. They said Dylan's…" She shut her eyes for a moment and swallowed hard. "They said Dylan's ashes will be ready for pick-up day after tomorrow." She took his hand and squeezed. "Just…this whole thing just sucks."

"It does," he agreed. He tugged her forward between his knees. "We'll think of something to do to honor him. Gunther-Hagen was a start, but we'll do something nice when we get him back."

Max looked down and nodded. "Okay. Yeah."

She was still pretty mum about the whole thing, and Fang couldn't blame her.

"I'm going to call California Correctional," he told her. "Meet with Nightshade as soon as I can."

Max shook her head. "I should probably do that—"

"Dylan asked me if I could take Nightshade his letter, and I know you're struggling with this right now," he interrupted. Max pursed her lips. "And that's okay. But just let me do this."

Max searched his eyes. "Fang, you hate cages. They're literally your worst fear. That place is a bunch of tiny cages inside one huge cage."

Fang suppressed his shudder. "I know. But I think I can handle it, for Dylan."

She worried her lips for a second, and then nodded. "Okay. You should take Jackson with you though. Dylan, Nightshade, and Jackson were all pretty big pillars of the revolution. Might be good for Shade to see him."

It was probably better he didn't go alone anyway. And she was right—telling Nightshade one of his friends was dead would be hard for all parties involved. The more familiar faces, the better.

"Good idea," he said. "I'll talk to him tonight." He looked up at her and felt his chest squeeze. Losing someone was never easy, and he couldn't help but think about the day he'd lose her, or vice versa. Hopefully, that would be decades and decades from now. He played with the ring on her finger. "I love you."

"This whole thing makes you really think about how fleeting life is, doesn't it?" she asked, and he nodded. She ran a hand down his jaw. "I love you, too."

She let him be, and Fang picked up the phone to make an appointment with Nightshade.

* * *

**These letters have been a bitch and a half, I'll tell you what. Four POVs I normally don't deal in ended up being a lot more work than I thought. And Fang's letter wasn't nearly as poignant, but he didn't have the same unfinished business as Dylan did with Iggy, or the high-stress connection with Nudge, or the friendship with Jackson. So his doesn't hit as high a note as the others.**

**I only have one more Lost Chapter to post, and it's M-rated. Let me know how you liked the letters, and that last lemon will be posted as soon as ya do. **


	23. Anticipation (M)

**And we're finally here! The last Lost Chapter. This one is rated M, and also unbeta'd. **

**Thank you all so much for your support and your love for the Lost Chapters. **

* * *

**ANTICIPATION**

The feeling of complete success had become an insane turn-on. It would be embarrassing, if it weren't for the fact that the only witness to it was Fang. And he reaped the benefits, so I doubted he was going to laugh at me _at all_.

But where we'd had the whole house to ourselves after my immunity deal, and we'd been too hung up on Dylan to celebrate Gunther-Hagen's capture, Poland was different. We'd taken it down alright—but after debriefing and a quick sleep on one of the ABW's cots, we had to get back on a plane to head home.

And I was _antsy_. I was humming with success, unbelievably charged with positivity. The kids we'd freed—those that could talk, at least—had been so grateful. Some cried, some whooped with joy, and others just stared in wonder at the world around them.

Pride is a dangerous thing to have sometimes, but I really couldn't help it. Compared to all the shame from Parker's crimes, it felt so awesome to be doing _good_ in the world.

I joggled my knee and tapped my finger against the armrest as we disembarked, hating my claustrophobia. We were landing for another layover in Geneva, this time with only an hour and a half of downtime.

Nudge, of course, wanted to go around and explore the airport and the weird foreign food. Iggy and Casey were down for that, too. They all looked back and Fang and me, but I faked a yawn. "Nah, I think I'm gonna crash in one of those rent-a-room things they have. Take a short nap."

It was hilarious how easily they accepted that. It was equally hilarious how they just assumed Fang wasn't going with them, either. They nodded and started walking away.

"You're not tired," Fang said, taking my hand and rubbing his thumb across my knuckles. "You were practically bouncing in your seat."

"But I was serious about that rent-a-room," I said with a mischievous grin. He looked down at me with a knowing smirk.

There was a phrase for this, I knew. Honeymoon phase. The want to jump his bones all the time, the need to trail a hand across his muscular shoulders when I passed him…

That, coupled with the buzz of victory, equaled _I don't want to wait until we get home._

Fang was pretty good at picking up on cues. No sooner than we'd shut the door to the small rental room, he was on me. His teeth seized the skin of my neck and his hands engulfed my hips.

I bit into my cheek to keep from making noise; these walls were noticeably thin, and other people had probably rented them for naps or work or whatever between flights. Plus, I was pretty sure the person at the front desk wouldn't take too kindly to this sort of activity.

There wasn't much in the room—a small desk and chair with Internet hookup, along with a coffee table and a long couch with hinged arms to make it longer for anyone that wanted a nap.

"You know, we really could wait," Fang mumbled against my throat, shucking my jacket and tossing it onto the desk chair.

"Don't want to," I said back, nudging aside the carry-on we had with us. "Glow of success will wear off. I want you now, not in thirteen hours." Then I paused and looked at him. "Well, maybe in thirteen hours, too."

Fang huffed a laugh and kissed me, sliding a hand behind my neck. I curled my fingers into the waistband of his jeans and dragged him closer. His tongue was aggressive, delving into my mouth and claiming it as his.

I fought back by walking him backwards and pushing him onto the couch-slash-futon thing. The heat of his mouth was gone for a few seconds while I toed out of my shoes and climbed into his lap.

Warmth spread through my chest and snatched away my breath. His hands were everywhere—my thighs, my ass, my back, under my shirt and inching towards the band of my bra…

Then he froze and groaned. It wasn't a good groan.

"What?" I said, pulling back. His eyes were black with heat and my toes curled inside my socks.

"Condoms weren't on the list of things to pack for this mission," he told me. His thumbs pressed into my hips. "And we used the one in my wallet when we were too lazy to get up and open the new box sitting on our desk. I didn't restock."

Damn. Though we could probably find some place that sold them inside the airport, we were both recognizable now. It wasn't the public's business that Fang and I were together, but it was hard to hide it when he'd used my last name on his official papers.

The last thing we needed was someone hounding the bird-kids about their sex lives, or plans for future bird-kids. Which would get infinitely worse if they caught one of us buying something sex-related _in an airport_. And while we'd forgone a condom before, I wasn't confident enough that our long flight wouldn't get delayed or cancelled and put us in a situation where it was publicly buying Plan B in a foreign country (did they even have that in Switzerland? I had no clue) versus just risking it.

I made a grumpy noise and he kissed my nose. "There are other things we can do that don't require a condom. I have an idea."

"The last time you said that, you half-proposed."

He squeezed my hips in mock-warning. "Sometimes," he said, leaning forward. His lips met my jaw and I shivered. "Anticipation can be a good thing."

I snorted. "Or it can make for a very long, very frustrating flight overseas."

"Now I understand why the Mile High club exists."

"I'm pretty sure the flight attendants look out for that stuff now."

"Probably," Fang said, his hands moving down. His thumbs drew circles on the insides of my thighs. Even though my jeans, I could feel the heat of his hands. "Small in those little lavatories, though. There wouldn't be a lot of room to move around."

His lips continued their pursuit, trailing down my throat. Okay, so maybe we'd have to keep it in our pants for a little while longer. This was nice, too.

"We made do with the table in the hall," I said and felt Fang's lips curl into a grin.

"True. We'd have to be sneaky to get past the flight attendants. One of us would have to leave our seat first."

This was purely theoretical, but I still found myself planning alongside him. "We'd need a secret knock."

Fang hummed against my neck and his lips sought a collarbone. I wiggled closer and his thumbs circled higher. "Wouldn't be able to get completely naked, just in case the flight attendants come knocking," he murmured.

"Which means I gotta lose my pants while you get to keep pretty much everything on," I muttered, trying not to let his talented mouth work me up too much. It was a losing battle.

Fang chuckled. "Don't blame me for having external sex organs."

I made a face. "God, you guys had it so easy when we were on the run. No squatting in what you hope isn't poison ivy, no trying to avoid peeing on your pants—"

Fang pulled away from my collarbones and cut me off with a hard kiss to my lips. "You're doing an excellent job of ruining the mood."

"Sorry."

"But yes, you'd have to lose these pants," he said, pinching the denim at the inside of my thighs. His voice dropped lower, huskier. "But I like undressing you." His fingers moved from their teasing place near the apex of my thighs up to the button of my jeans. "Popping this button open, pulling down the zipper…"

He didn't actually do it, but his thumb circled the metal button and drew a line down the zipper so, so slowly. Heat flared in my belly and I sucked in a breath. "Suddenly, this idea seems like a bad one." His eyes were teasing and they flashed something dirty. He was so much better with this kind of talk than I was, so I tried to level the playing field. "If I gotta take my pants off, I'm getting you out of your shirt. It's only fair."

I followed this up by pulling him forward to peel him out of his jacket. He let me, removing those evil hands of his from me for a moment. I didn't stop there, electing to pull him out of his long-sleeved shirt, too.

"Hey, I didn't actually get you out of your jeans," he complained.

"I never said you couldn't," I shot back, dumping his shirt next to us on the futon. I ran my fingernails over his chest, relishing in the shudder that went through him.

He cupped my hips and jerked me forward, forcing my knees wider. The bulge in the front of his pants became extremely evident where it pressed against me. "I like to use my imagination," he taunted, nipping at my jaw. "I have a very, very active imagination when it comes to you."

I squirmed, flushing like mad and biting my lip to keep from grinning. "Do you?" I asked shakily. Fang's hands tightened on me when I rocked my hips once. "What happens next?"

"I regret forgetting to restock my wallet, that's what happens next."

I laughed. "I meant on the plane. What happens next?"

"Oh," he said, sliding his hands back down to my legs. "Well, these jeans come off, even though I love the way they look on you."

"I thought I caught you sneaking a look earlier."

"There is nothing sneaky about the way I look at you," he said before continuing. "The jeans come off, but your underwear stays on. We can get around those."

"Sounds like more clothing to fight with," I snickered, but then one of Fang's thumbs traced the junction where my thigh met my pelvis, right where the edge of my underwear sat under my jeans. I dug my fingernails into his shoulders.

"Maybe. Or maybe it just adds a little more fun to the equation," he said, his lips at my ear.

I tried to think of a snappy comeback, but my brain had shorted out spectacularly. Fang rolled his hips under me, slow and deliberate, pressing himself against me. I found myself wishing he had taken my jeans off. My mouth went to his neck, seeking his thumping pulse and I tried not to leave a visible mark.

"Then what?" I asked when I could finally pull words together. "Prop me up on the sink?"

Fang shook his head. He wrapped his hands around my thighs and stood from the little futon. "Against the wall," he said, and I felt very, very hot when he pressed my back to the wall. "Opposite the mirror."

"Opposite the—why?" I breathed, wrapping my legs around him tightly.

"So you can see the look on your face when I'm finally inside you."

An unexpected thrill shot down to my toes.

"God, I love that look, Max," he carried on, nibbling on my earlobe while I turned into complete goo. "Your chin tips up and you look at me with those _eyes_…"

I realized I'd pressed my head into the wall, and my chin was tipping up, mouth dropping open as his hips continued their assault. "Fang…"

One of his hands left my thigh to undo the button at the front of my jeans. His fingers fumbled with the zipper and he paused his incessant grinding to get it down.

Then he was in my pants, hand cupping me with only my underwear as a barrier. I nearly bit through my tongue with a restrained gasp.

"Remember, we have to be quiet," he reminded me with a quiet chuckle. "Both in real life and in our fake plane."

I smothered a combination annoyed and aroused groan in his bare shoulder. "How do you expect me to—_unh, _God…"

Fang growled low in my ear, fingers stroking across the fabric of my underwear. The crotch portion of the poor fabric was seeing a lot of moisture at the moment. "Fuck."

"Get my pants off."

He swung me to the side and plopped me on the desk long enough to shimmy my jeans off and then I was back against the wall. He pulled aside the material covering my core and pressed his thumb against my clit.

I pushed a palm to my mouth to silence myself.

"See?" Fang said, kissing the back of my hand. "Don't really have to fight with clothing all that much."

I wanted to mumble _shut up_, but I was too busy trying to hold onto him with one hand without bucking my hips. Plus, you know, the whole covering-my-mouth thing.

He seemed to read my facial expression well enough and grinned. He pressed his lips to my forehead, stroking me harder, faster. I shut my eyes and let my head rest against the wall, digging my heels into his back.

Then his hand left me and tugged at my fingers. His lips replaced them. His hips ground into mine again and without my pants in the way, the seams of his jeans over his cock rubbed me in all the right ways.

The muscles of his shoulders under my hands were working hard, bunching and releasing, bunching and releasing. His fingers gripped my thighs and I dove to attack his jaw with my lips.

"I don't have a change of clothes in the carry-on," Fang grunted into my ear. I got the underlying problem there. He'd ruin the only clean pair of boxers he had, right before a long flight.

"I can—"

He shook his head before I could finish with an offer. "Like I said. Sometimes, anticipation can be a good thing."

"You're going to willingly blue ball yourself?" I said incredulously, digging my nails into his shoulders when he ground against me harder.

"I can get you off like this, if you want. I'll be fine."

The hardest word to say in that moment was _no_, but I forced it out anyway. If he could wait, so could I. "No. No, I—oh, man, this flight is going to suck."

Fang stood holding me against the wall, body still and hot where he pressed into me. I ran my hands from his shoulders down his arms around me, trying to cool down.

"It gets worse," he said. "We're not even sitting in the same row."

* * *

I groaned, pulling my hair out of my elastic and shaking it loose. I started my shower and stripped my jacket off, then raised my arms in a cat-stretch. God, I was glad to be home.

"That's a good view," I heard Fang say and I spun with my hands curled.

"Jesus, Fang," I breathed, reaching out to flick one of his folded arms. He leaned casually against our bathroom door, our carry-on at his feet.

"Sorry," he said, eyes sweeping down and back up. "You were right, that flight was hell."

Yes, it really had been. Every time I happened to glance at the airplane lavatories, I could feel myself blush. I was actually glad Fang wasn't in the same row as me, because otherwise, he probably just would have made the whole thing worse.

"They _were_ small though," Fang continued, pushing off the door. "The bathrooms. I explored one just for fun."

"Oh, yeah?" I raised an eyebrow. I'd avoided them on purpose, taking a trip to the airport bathroom instead right before boarding. I went to shuck my jeans off, but Fang grabbed at my fingers.

"My head brushed the ceiling," he said. He hooked a finger into the waistband of my pants and tugged me closer. "And the mirror? It was tiny."

"Didn't live up to your expectations, huh?"

He slipped the button of my jeans through the hole and pulled the zipper down. "Nope."

"You know, I was planning on taking a shower," I said, watching him as he pushed my jeans down my hips.

"I figured that was why the water was on, yeah," he said with a grin. "Mind if I join?"

"Will you wash my hair again?"

Fang smiled wider and I steadied my hands on his shoulders as he pulled my jeans from my legs. "Sure."

"Then deal," I said. I reached over to switch on the bathroom fan so the steam wouldn't suffocate us. Then I slid my hands up Fang's sides to get his shirt off. He was kissing me as soon as it cleared his head.

Whatever time I hadn't spent sleeping on our flight, I'd spent either frustrated or turned on or both. I could feel he had the same problem. He was hot and hard, straining against his pants.

"Note for the future," I said against his lips. "Thirteen hours? Too long for anticipation."

Fang made a noise of agreement. I ran my fingers through his hair, groaning when his hands slid down my sides further to glide into my underwear.

"One second," he said, squeezing me. "Sorry, one second."

He let go of me and slipped from the bathroom. I breathed out and fanned my heated skin, leaning back against the countertop.

Lips met my neck a few seconds later. "Shower before or after?"

I rolled my eyes behind closed lids. "You wanna wait even longer?"

"Good point," he said, and I opened my eyes to his lopsided grin. He'd gotten rid of his jeans at some point between the bathroom and what I assumed was our condom stash. He got my shirt off and paused. A thumb traced something on my stomach and his grin faded. "That Eraser's punch hit you hard."

I shrugged. "We got out clean in comparison to them. I took him down easily enough." Pride hit me again. "I'll take a bad bruise if it means we got all the Erasers secured and saved those kids." A little bit of his grin came back and I wrapped my fingers around his sides. "See, I knew planning hostile takeovers—"

He cut me off, kissing me hard. I hopped up onto the counter and he squeezed between my knees. He slid a hand behind my back, brushing through my feathers before finding the clasp of my bra. With impressive dexterity, he snapped it open one-handed.

"That's a new trick," I said, pushing out of the straps.

"You suck at doing laundry these days, so I spend a lot of time fiddling with those damn clasps," he said, pulling the cups away from me and tossing the bra over his shoulder. "I already knew some things since we all took turns washing laundry when we were teens. How did you think I knew about underwire?"

"My guess would have been the Internet." He rolled his eyes and I snickered, kissing his cheek. "In that case, I'm kinda glad you fondled my bras years ago, then."

"I didn't _fondle_ them," he argued into my cleavage where his lips had found home. He'd started a slow grind and I moved closer to the edge of the counter to feel more of him. "_These_, I fondle."

His hands cupped my breasts fully and I leaned into him with a throaty, satisfied noise. The shower didn't dampen everything, but it sure gave us some cover from my sounds. He drew delicious circles over my skin and I weaseled between us to push his boxers off him.

His cock bobbed free and I took it in my hand. Fang sucked a little harder at a breast. "Condom?" I asked.

"Next to your hip," he said, too busy tormenting my buzzing skin with his mouth. I searched for it blindly with one hand, the other stroking Fang's very excited friend. I eventually got the foil packet open and rolled the latex on him, but before I could scoot closer, he scooped me into his arms.

"Oh, jeez," I muttered, tightening my legs as he hitched me up. "What—"

He turned around and pressed me into the wall next to the shower. The bathroom was starting to get very warm from the hot shower and his body heat added onto that.

He got a real good grip on a thigh and pulled the crotch of my underwear to the side. His lips found that very old, very familiar spot just under my ear and it stoked the fire building inside me.

I felt him right there, resting right up against me. I could barely breathe and then I realized why he'd moved us from the counter. The mirror was behind him.

My imagination was not nearly as good as the real thing. The mirror was a little foggy from the shower, but I could still see everything. His wings were loose behind him, dark and powerful in comparison to his soft lips on my skin. Every fantastic, corded muscle stood out as he held me captive against the wall, from his flexed arms to his well-toned ass.

"Max…" Fang murmured, voice full of need and heat, checking like he always did that I was okay. I clutched at him, my arms around his neck. The hunger in his voice matched the hunger I saw in my eyes.

I nodded wildly, and then he was pushing inside me so, so slowly. That expression he'd described in the airport was unstoppable. I saw what it looked like, and he could see that I was watching.

"So fucking sexy," he breathed, readjusting his grip on my thighs while I dropped my head against the wall. He was splitting me apart, burying himself deep. I twisted a hand into his hair.

He started a slow pace, rolling into me while I struggled not to let go right then and there. Being a part of the action was one thing.

But watching it, too? Mind-blowing.

Every movement he made I felt and saw. Every thrust, every tensed muscle, every shudder of pleasure, whether it raced down his back or appeared on his face, was open for me to see.

I watched him make love to me, felt him working my body with incredible dedication. I barely held in a moan. "You have the best ideas sometimes, Fang, I swear."

He chuckled lowly in my ear, but it faded into a groan. He pulled on my thighs, moving his arms under them and spreading me open further. His hands gripped at my ass and I inhaled sharply, his cock reaching further inside me than I thought possible.

"Okay?" he grunted, and I nodded manically, fighting down my release before I just exploded. Fang must have felt that. My body was tense, my breath was faltering, and I was having trouble keeping it all inside. "Let go, Max. It's okay."

I almost didn't want to. I was so high on it, on the feeling of almost-orgasm, on the electric sensation of him taking me again and again. I didn't want it to be over, I didn't want it to stop.

He filled me with a hard, toe-curling thrust. "Oh, goddammit," I swore with a squeak.

"I've got you, sweetheart," he whispered with another hard thrust, and that did it. I wasn't one for pet names, but that was the only one Fang called me, and only ever when it was just the two of us. It was tender and secret and it broke the dam.

I was pulled in, pulled under, clamping down on him like my life depended on it. My heels dug in, my hands tugged at his hair, and I cried out loudly.

The world went grey with pleasure and then black as my eyes fell shut. Several seconds passed in which I just rode it out: the pulsing heartbeat, the clenching muscles, the rushing endorphins.

When I gathered enough of my wits about me, Fang had slowed way down. He pecked my cheek, my nose, above both eyebrows before finally finding my lips. "You alright there?"

"Can't feel my legs," I said weakly, which made a smug grin appear on Fang's face. His hips continued their slow dance and my over-heated body hummed with feeling.

I kissed the smirk straight off his face, trailing my hands down his chest and around to his back. I buried my fingers in his feathers, finding that sensitive spot of his. He grunted and sped up a notch. I concentrated just on him, on scratching my nails into the leathery base of his wings and building him higher.

I nipped at his jaw, the sensation of him sliding into me so effortlessly spine-tingling. His rhythm faltered just a little, hitching when his hips pressed flush to mine. My oversensitive flesh clenched and a spark lit my already-satisfied core. "Fuck, Fang. I can feel how close you are—"

He groaned into my shoulder. "Max…"

"Come on," I urged him, sliding my hands down further to grip his ass. I could only get my hands far enough to the swell of it, but I pressed my fingers in hard. "Come for me."

One hand flew between us and I gasped when his thumb found my button. "Come with me."

"I don't know if I—_oh, God_—I don't know if I can," I said truthfully. I was still recovering from the first earth-shattering orgasm. Fang's teeth closed on my shoulder and he bore down, long and hard strokes melting into short, deep, grinding ones. His thumb and his pelvis and my the hem of my underwear worked together and I whimpered.

"I'm not gonna—" Fang grunted again and released my skin only to press his forehead there next.

"It's okay," I told him. God, I really was getting there again, but I knew he needed to let go. "It's okay—"

His fingers on my ass went stiff, pulling me taut around him. His final thrust hit a different angle, sharper and shallower, and then he was pulsing inside me. To my complete surprise, I came from that. I was suddenly gripping him with fluttering walls and shocked breaths of air. I didn't even know if my tumbling thoughts of _Jesus Christ_ and _I love you_ and _holy fuck_ came out as articulate words or just a bunch of incoherent screams.

The next time I blinked, we were both on the floor, a mess of tangled limbs and shared breaths. My hips were hurting, legs tingling, but my face in Fang's neck was the only thing that mattered.

I groaned and pulled a leg free from where it was stuck under him. "That…that was _awesome_."

Fang laughed, breathing hard. He held my hip in one hand. "Legs gave out."

"Hah. And you laughed at me for not being able to feel mine."

He pinched my hip, but there was nothing behind it, and he smoothed a hand over my waist right after. "Good thing you said shower afterwards. That was—"

"Sweaty," I filled in, though part of that was probably because we'd left the water running. A thin sheen of sweat covered both of us. I rolled off him and wiggled out of my underwear, gritting my teeth at how sensitive everything felt down there. "Christ, I'm gonna be sore."

Fang's eyes were immediately concerned. "Did I hurt you?"

I flung my underwear with the rest of our clothes and shook my head. "No. It was still a workout though." I sighed, highly satisfied, and turned on my stomach on the floor. The tile was cool and refreshing.

Fang made a noise and I felt fingers pinch my ass. "How about that shower?"

I swatted at his fingers and he chuckled. He stood, peeling off the condom and ditching it in the trash can. He helped me up and pulled me into the shower.

The spray was warm, too hot with our combined body heat. I reached out and turned it cooler. One of his hands smoothed through my hair while the other blocked the spray from my face. "I ever tell you how gorgeous you are?"

I smiled up at him, dancing my hands down his wet abdomen. "You're pretty handsome yourself, mister."

He cupped my face and kissed me gently. "Never going to get tired of this."

"Well, I hope not," I said, snagging his body wash and lathering up a generous amount. I ran soapy hands all over his chest. "I'm way too attached to you at this point."

He grinned, wide and genuine and just for me.

* * *

**If you're still craving some more Catalyst universe stuff, check out Symbiosis if you haven't already :)**

**Reviews are appreciated! Did you enjoy the lost chapters? Did you find them helpful in seeing characters more clearly? Let me know!**


	24. Final Note & Playlist

I'm sorry, this is not a chapter.

I received two separate Guest reviews asking where Max and Spencer's letters were and, because they were guests, I can't respond via PM.

So this isn't a chapter, sorry, but rather a note. Spencer did not receive a letter, and Max's letter is in Catalyst's chapter 70. Perhaps you missed the last few chapters of Catalyst? It's completed now.

I did, however, want to take the opportunity to throw up all the songs that helped me make Catalyst, the Lost Chapters, and Symbiosis possible. They were either hugely inspirational, or just ridiculously fun to write action scenes to. Or sex scenes. Either one.

Some are centered around individuals, like Bane, some between two people, like Spencer and Max, or Fang and Max, or the Flock in general. But all of them helped contribute to the end result, and I thought I'd share along with delivering that note to my Guest reviewers.

I hope you all find a song or artist you like. :)

**Playlist:**

Feel the Same | _Battle Tapes_  
Creature Fear | _Bon Iver_  
For Everything A Reason | _Carina Round_  
Sleepwalking | _The Chain Gang of 1974_  
the lonely | _Christina Perri_  
Smother | _Daughter_  
Youth | _Daughter_  
Volare (Nel Blu Di Pinto Di Blu) | _Dean Martin_  
Hero | _Pegboard Nerds, Elizaveta_  
Icarus | _Elizaveta_  
Ace in the Hole | _Ella Fitzgerald_  
Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall | _The Ink Spots, Ella Fitzgerald_  
Somebody Nobody Loves | _Ella Fitzgerald_  
Army | _Ellie Goulding_  
Centuries | _Fall Out Boy_  
No Light, No Light | _Florence + The Machine_  
Spanish Sahara | _Foals_  
The Way I Tend To Be | _Frank Turner_  
Stars | _Grace Potter &amp; The Nocturnals_  
For Years and Years | _Helios_  
Hope Valley Hill | _Helios_  
Superhuman | _Kelly Sweet_  
Sugarpill | _Kyler England_  
World on Fire | _Les Friction_  
Love Me As Though There Were No Tomorrow | _Nat King Cole_  
In The Next Room | _Neon Trees_  
Feeling Good | _Nina Simone_  
Homeostasis | _Nostalghia_  
Emperor's New Clothes | _Panic! At The Disco_  
Creep | _Radiohead_  
Savior | _Rise Against_  
Deep End | _Ruelle_  
Until We Go Down | _Ruelle_  
Feels Like the End | _Shane Alexander_  
Breathe Me | _Sia_  
Eye of the Tiger | _Survivor_  
Car Radio | _Twenty One Pilots_  
No One Does It Better | _You Me At Six_

Thanks for the reviews and the support :)

\- Lus


	25. The Cat and the Canary (T) 1 of 5

I've been going through my fanfiction folders lately and debating whether or not to upload some old things from all my universes. One aspect of Catalyst I regret not exploring further is the relationship between Iggy and Casey. It was just beginning, if you remember, at the tail-end of Catalyst. The epilogue jumped two years, in which it's mentioned that Iggy and Casey have moved into an apartment of their own.

I had a one-shot typed up of how they got together, but I never posted it. Later on, I added onto it, after the Lost Chapters had already been closed out. I figured, oh why not open them back up and post?

Takes place just after the crew returns from Poland.

* * *

**THE CAT AND THE CANARY, Part One**

**IGGY**

It was practically torture at this point. He could identify her first by smell before the people he'd grown up with his whole life. She moved on practically silent feet, a feline grace no doubt thanks to her equally feline DNA, but it was like she had Max's loud gait to him. Mainly because he just _listened _for it.

Casey was going to drive him up the wall, and he was pretty fucking sure he'd happily let her.

He still had no idea what she looked like, not really. He'd seen her blobby shape against the white ceiling when they were on her floor. He knew from Nudge and his own fingertips that her hair was a pitch black, her skin a pale, peachy tone. He'd been told her eyes were green, and he wanted to know so badly the exact color. Green like emeralds? Or lighter, like sea foam?

Unless he managed to touch her actual eyeball with his wonky fingertips, he'd probably never know the exact color. And that was a little depressing at times, until he remembered Casey could paint. One day, if she painted a portrait of herself, he had all the confidence that she'd probably match her own shade perfectly, and then he'd know.

But he was a tongue-tied bastard, and so instead of voicing the thoughts with the totally believable excuse that he, as a blind person, liked to have the small details, he just replayed a one-sided conversation in his head over and over again.

"Earth to Iggy."

He blinked, which did nothing for his sightless eyes to focus, but it shook him from his thoughts. "What?"

Casey huffed and he had to bite down hard on his tongue to keep from grinning. If it was possible for someone to sound adorably annoyed, she pulled it off. "I asked if you'd help me on my offense. Max said something about being quick versus powerful, so—"

"Sure," Iggy said, way too quickly. He nearly winced, but he really couldn't help but be so freaking enthusiastic to any request of hers. Sparring, though mildly violent and definitely sweaty, was very _hands on_.

"Great. I'm gonna change. Meet you outside?"

His mind lingered on a sweaty Casey. Iggy coughed and turned his head into his shoulder to hide the shit-eating grin on his face. "Give me five minutes."

He was outside in two, pulling one of his long arms across his torso and hooking the other around his elbow. He stretched, tilting his face to the sun and feeling the California heat roll onto his forehead and spread to his cheeks.

"Don't you know if you stare at the sun, you'll go blind?" The rough way her fricatives rolled off her tongue was fucking porn, he swore.

Iggy laughed and turned in her general direction. "Yeah, well—"

He didn't have time to finish. One second he could hear the way she displaced the grass, balanced slightly forward on her toes. The next, her feet were a blur of quiet noise, and he had no time to react. Her fist was in his stomach immediately.

He had a second to thank all that was holy that he now had regular access to a toothbrush, because he was pretty sure all the air in his lungs evacuated right into her nose. Before he could even think to swipe through the air in a counter attack, she flitted away. "Oh, _God_. I hate Max. She showed you some fast moves, didn't she?"

A leaf crumbled on the ground to his right, and he could tell half her left foot was on it. "In the FBI's Arena. Sparring mats. Whatever. But yeah. She said I'm too small to pack a big punch, so I needed to use my speed to my advantage instead."

He supposed Max would know best, having trained all of them after Jeb left, as well as Erasers as Parker. Still, freaking _ow. _He shook out his head and refocused. He had years of sparring experience, and loads more background on fighting actual enemies. He'd have her on the ground in seconds.

Hopefully, on the ground _under_ him…

Iggy grinned and gestured her forward. "Let's see whatcha got, Cat-Girl."

He had to admit, the 'fast instead of powerful' routine worked much better in her favor. At first. He couldn't zero in on her quickly enough, but he could still dodge most of her punches. After a couple of minutes, his ears picked up the way her lungs strained. Her cardio wasn't as strong as his, and he smirked knowingly.

She didn't yet have the endurance to beat him. She was new at fighting, and she _had_ recently been shot, so it didn't surprise him that she was tiring quickly, especially with her new, quick-as-lightning strategy.

He threw a punch towards her shoulder and actually managed to hit her. Casey gasped, more in surprise than pain, and her feet shuffled around in the grass. She was off-balance, as much as a feline hybrid _could_ be off-balance, and so he darted in, nabbing one of her arms. He twisted it gently behind her back, his much bigger hand wrapping around her tiny wrist. His other arm snaked around her waist and he yanked her tight to his chest, restricting her movement as gently as he could while still be firm.

It allowed him some up-close and personal time with the way she squirmed. He was right. Sweaty Casey was just as great as he thought it'd be. Her natural, earthy scent mixed with the salty smell of sweat, combined with the sharp punch her paints gave off. Something in his chest warmed considerably.

Casey growled and he laughed. "Gotcha."

She struggled against him, which actually started to help jostle her free, what with her bendy spine and all, but he wrestled her to the ground and pinned her there on her stomach. "No fair!"

"How!" he said incredulously as she wriggled. "Not my fault I'm better than you."

"Sore winner."

"Sore _loser_," he retorted. She sighed and went limp, then pushed one elbow under her. He relented. "I'll tell you what. I'll be nice and let you turn onto your back."

"You just want me to be able to see your stupid, gloating face," she spat back, all salt and vinegar. She managed to wiggle onto her back anyway and the insane urge to kiss her just hit him like a tidal wave, strong and out of control.

Iggy wrapped his fist around the urge and drowned it. Casey reached up and flicked his chest playfully, her rusty laugh _doing _things to him, and the words just tumbled out. "You have no clue how attractive you are, do you?"

A beat of silence.

He knew his face went beet red. Being a pale dude, he always felt red, but the hot flush was altogether different this time. It really didn't help that Casey went rigid under him.

"Uh," he coughed and rolled off her, running suddenly nervous fingers through his hair. God, he was an idiot. A stupid, friendship-ruining idiot. "Ignore that. Open mouth, insert foot. C'mon, let's keep practicing and—"

"How could you possibly know that?" she asked, almost tentatively. "Not to be super rude and Captain Obvious, but you can't see me_."_

If it were even possible to get more red, he was sure he accomplished it. God, he was _sweating_, and it had nothing to do with the sparring. "It's…it's just—look, it's hard to explain. I don't want to fuck up our friendship, so just forget I said anything."

"No," Casey said back, shifting on the ground. He could hear her turn onto her stomach and push her hands under her. Her knee brushed his as she rearranged her limbs and gooseflesh rose all over his body, despite it being a balmy eighty-two degrees, even in the shade. "No, I want to know what you meant."

There was genuine curiosity in that ridiculously blood-pumping voice of hers, and he grumbled under his breath. "I can't…_see_ you, in the traditional sense. But I'm not talking about how you look. You could have one eye two inches above the other and it wouldn't make a difference to me."

"Then…I guess I don't get it," Casey said. He so wished that if he was going to be stupid and blurt shit out loud, he would have done it somewhere white, so he could at least sort of see her blobby, blurry shape and not feel so goddamn _blind_.

Iggy sighed. He wasn't getting out of this at all, and he knew leaving it like that would make it so awkward. Well, it was already awkward. But he might as well try to explain, because awkward was awkward.

"It's your voice," he admitted sheepishly. He rubbed at an ear, and the ruddy red that flashed across his sightless eyes told him just how tomato-like he was in color.

"My voice?"

Her incredulous huff of air knocked over his resolve as if it were a house of cards. "Casey, your voice is auditory _crack_, I swear to God. It drops off into this rough—no pun intended—purr. It's—" He was going to say _boner material_, but he, unlike Nudge and Jackson, had a filter. "It's addictive. Seriously addictive. As in, please talk forever, because it's the most attractive thing I've ever heard in my goddamn life."

Casey was quiet again, but he'd already dug himself into a hole. There was no use trying to shovel out of it. He grumbled under his breath about his stupidity and flopped onto his back in the grass.

A moment later, her weight was settled on his stomach, her legs slung on either side of him. He almost sat up abruptly, but he heard her fingers thread into the grass just next to his ears and figured slamming their foreheads together would make the situation that much worse.

"I've only been free from the School for a year," she said, and the quiet temperance of her voice made him itch. "I'm not very good at handling situations like this. I've never _been_ in a situation like this. So just…don't move, okay?"

Well, now he was just confused. "Uh, okay?" he said, if a little meekly. His fingers drifted to her planted knees, the black threads of her spandex leggings rough against his skin.

In the next second, something soft pressed against his mouth. It took him a second to realize it was Casey's lips. She was kissing him. She was _kissing_ him.

To be technical, it was more like she'd just planted her mouth on his and then didn't move. Like a kiss frozen in time. Or a kiss frozen in 'I don't know what I'm doing, but I think you'll get it.'

And he got it alright. His hands flew from her knees to cup her face, because screw not moving. She tasted like vanilla and a little bit of sweat and his hands threaded into the hair behind her human ears, flashing onyx and just a hint of burgundy behind his closed eyes as his fingers caught in her curls.

He took the lead, even though he was nearly as clueless as she was. He'd kissed someone before, but that was back when he was fifteen, infatuated with Max's younger sister. He and Ella had only ever shared one chaste kiss that was shy and more teeth than anything else. That hardly counted as _experience_ in this area.

Still, it felt instinctual to tilt his head so their noses didn't bump, so he did it. And Casey's braced arms on either side of his head started to slacken, so the next thing he thought was logical was to pull her into his lap.

Iggy wrapped one hand around her thigh and another around her slender waist, pushing them both upright. Her arms went around his shoulders, fingers tangling into the hair at the nape of his neck. A shiver worked its way down his spine and he had to physically stop himself from clutching her even closer.

After a moment though, she pulled away, a little breathless. Her exhale of air hit his lips and they _tingled_. His entire body felt full of helium, ready to float away if not for her to tether him to the ground.

God, he sounded like a fucking sap. He didn't even care. All he cared about was her weight in his lap and her legs around his sides.

"Was that…was that okay?" Casey asked, more shy than he could ever remember her sounding. He really couldn't help but squeeze her waist tightly.

"I've been wanting to kiss you for ages," he admitted, his voice low to his own ears. Husky, he decided. That's what she did to him. "When I mapped your face, I wanted to kiss you then. Your lips…" He trailed off and reached up, cupping her cheek again. His thumb traced along its lines and the image of them flickered in his mind. Each point was a pinprick of light, and the little pinpricks came together to form a map of her. It shone, but her lips were the brightest, the most recently refreshed in his mind's eye.

He leaned forward, aware of his hand and thumb and using them to make sure he didn't kiss her chin, or her nose. He got her lips on the first try (rewarded himself with a mental fist bump), and felt her lashes against his cheek as her eyes fluttered closed.

Kissing her was definitely going to be his new favorite thing. Cooking with ingredients he never even knew existed? Yeah, that was fun. Building C4 breaching charges for the FBI in their raids? Freaking _awesome_. Kissing Casey? Better than pretty much everything awesome in his life combined.

Now all he had to do was not screw it up.

* * *

AN: Not sure how much interest there is for this, but eh it's written, so what the hell. There are a few Fax pieces I have left over, as well as some other characters. Those'll go up along with updates for MI, and MI Snapshots.

Please don't forget to leave your thoughts, as always :)


	26. The Cat and the Canary (T) 2 of 5

**THE CAT AND THE CANARY, Part Two**

For all his teasing comments and general bravado, Iggy was nervous when it came to his relationship with Casey. Emotionally, they both had their issues, and dealing with those was a story on its own, not to mention the brand new physical aspect.

He'd never really had a girlfriend before. It helped that Casey was just as inexperienced as he was—he really didn't have anything to live up to or past guys to compete with.

It was around the same time that Max and Fang were going to geneticists and fertility specialists to figure out whether or not bird kid plus bird kid equaled bird baby that Iggy started thinking about whether or not he and Casey would one day need to make decisions like that.

Iggy fidgeted with a dish towel as he waited for the oven to preheat. He and Casey hadn't yet talked about how _serious_ they were. To him, he didn't see anyone else. Well, maybe see wasn't the right word for obvious reasons, but he was a human-avian hybrid with a shit-ton of baggage. She was a human-feline hybrid with a shit-ton of baggage.

It wasn't like that automatically made them perfect for each other or anything, but the reality of the situation was that they were _different_ from straight humans. They were literally part animal, and sometimes those animalistic parts of them took over in weird ways. Ruffled feathers or flattened ears when pissed off, the urge to be up in the sky or curled in the darkness for comfort—those weren't human things. Those came from being part animal. Combined with the fact that they'd both lived lives of experimentation and terror, by default they had more in common with each other than they ever would with another human.

It was easy that way. His parents had immediately tried to sell him as a freak, and that left such a bad taste in his mouth that even his Alter, _years_ later, felt the sting. With Casey, they were two peas in a cozy little pod, even if they weren't the same species.

He didn't want anyone else. He didn't want to _think_ about anyone else. He just wanted her, and he was pretty damn sure he could easily fall in love with her. But was she in it for the long haul?

The pre-heat buzzer went off on the stove and Iggy flipped the door down to stuff the pan of homemade garlic bread inside. He groped to his right for the egg timer on the counter and counted the each click of the mechanism inside until it was set for ten minutes.

If she was in it for the long haul, Iggy mused, he wondered if she thought about kids the way Max and Fang were. They weren't trying, he'd been assured. But after Nightshade's story of joining Arken due Penny's death via fetus, they weren't sure whether or not a baby would hurt Max, or if it was even possible. Max and Fang had been meant to be together since practically birth, and they knew they'd be in it until they either died in a blaze of glory or peacefully in their bed at eighty years old.

They had kind of rushed into the physical, Iggy knew. Hell, he'd _heard_ it. That night after Spencer's attack, he'd been happily snoozing in his bed when the sound of loud, stumbling footsteps on the front stairs roused him. He figured Max, because she sounded like an elephant on a good day, but the second, lighter pair of footsteps and the not-so-subtle sounds of face-sucking were pretty unmistakable.

Iggy had rolled his eyes, sighed _finally_ under his breath, and turned back over in bed. He wasn't expecting to hear the sounds of rustling clothing or bitten-back moans—were they really…?

Half out of respect to privacy and half because it was totally fucking weird, he'd shoved his head under his pillow and donned a pair of headphones once he realized they were actually heading towards Poundtown, USA, population Max and Fang. Even through two sets of closed doors and Max's own efforts to muffle herself, his ears were just way too sensitive. The podcast on celestial bodies drowned everything out, thank God, but he spent the time falling back asleep thinking up sly jokes he could make in the morning.

Iggy shook his head out and got back to the turkey meatballs simmering in the pasta sauce on the stovetop. Spencer had kindly shared his mother's old-style Italian recipe for her apparently amazing spaghetti sauce, and he was finally trying it out.

He heard the creak of the floorboards in the hall just outside of the kitchen and grinned. "You can't sneak up on me."

"_Dammit_," he heard her curse. "One of these days, I'll do it. I swear I will." Casey traipsed purposefully loud into the kitchen and hopped up onto the counter next to his left elbow. "That smells great, by the way. Sniffed it from under my door."

"Was that your only motivation for coming in here before the dinner bell?" he cracked. She knew that he made whoever appeared in the kitchen first his lackey, setting up the dinner plates or helping to dole out heaping portions of steaming food. She hated doing anything that resembled a chore. "Or was it my impeccable charm? My disarming grin? My—"

She socked him in the shoulder and he staggered back with a grunting laugh. He felt like his cheeks could split sometimes because he was so fucking happy, and that feeling came over him again of just wanting to be with her forever.

And again, so did the question of if she felt the same.

Iggy's grin petered out and he turned back to his cooking. "So…d'you know Max and Fang are going to a bunch of doctors right now?"

"Mm," Casey acknowledged, crunching into what sounded like one of the snap peas sitting in a bowl he'd set aside for dinner. "Heard somethin' about peeing in a cup."

"They're trying to see if they can get pregnant."

There was a long moment of silence before: "Shit, really?"

"Not right now," Iggy said quickly, groping for the wooden spoon popping out of the pot with the boiling spaghetti sauce. He could picture pregnant Max, grouchy and snippy all over the place. "Just for the future. Thank God. Could you imagine?"

"We're all _so_ stable."

Iggy snorted despite his tumbling thoughts. He went back and forth in his head how to bring up the future of their relationship, but every ice-breaker sounded so woefully stupid and he raised his glass of cola to his lips. _So, speaking of decisions that'll impact the rest of our lives… _or _yeah, they're super serious. About being serious…_

"Do you think we could have kids?" Casey said suddenly. It was unfortunate, really. Cola was perfectly good, sweet and sugary and awesomely carbonated in the best way. It was only too bad that all those things that made it so good were horrible when they came out his nose instead.

Casey's voice was unimpressed when she spoke again. "Wow. Dramatic much?"

Iggy coughed hard, his nose burning. "Your fault!" he wheezed, coughing again. He pawed for the paper towels to the right of the stove and blew his nose to try and get as much of the cola out of there as he could. "Jeez, Casey."

"I wasn't saying knock me up, dear Lord." She slid off the counter and ran her fingers across his back as she passed. "I was just thinking out loud. We have a completely different mix of DNA."

"I don't know," Iggy muttered, sniffing and shaking his head out. "I don't even know if I want any. I helped take care of three young kids as a kid myself. Granted, I did significantly less than Max and Fang and I _might_ have been the cause of more problems than not, but…why? Have you thought about it?"

Casey snorted. "No. I'm still practically a kid myself."

Iggy blanched. "Eugh, don't say that. It makes me feel like a cradle robber."

"A what?"

"It means someone who dates someone else younger than them," Iggy muttered. "Like…you know. Someone coming in to a nursery to rob the baby from the cradle."

He couldn't see her look of incredulity, but he heard it in the tone of her voice. "You're four years older than me, Iggy. That's hardly _cradle robbing."_

Well, there was that and the fact that he sometimes felt like he was totally taking advantage of how naïve she was about a lot of things in the world, but he didn't say that out loud. "It's just…" He didn't want to say it. He fought to keep it in, but it was bothering him so much that it bubbled over like a boiling pot of water. "I really freaking like you, Casey, and I want us to be serious, but you're young. You don't have even half as much experience in the world as I do and I'm…fuck, I'm just scared you'll realize there's way better fish in the sea than me."

Iggy pursed his lips and turned back to the stovetop. He didn't try to listen for her heartbeat or the way she breathed to figure out what she was thinking or feeling, the way sighted people looked at facial expressions. He didn't want to wait for the realization to dawn.

God, he shouldn't have said a damn word. He was such an dumbass, and he distracted himself by stirring the sauce.

Suddenly, she thumped the back of his head. "You're an idiot."

"Ow," he complained, rubbing his smarting skull. She ignored him and shoved at his shoulder.

"Do you really think I'm that much of a flake?" she asked incredulously, sounding, of all things, _pissed off_. Shit, now he'd done it. "Or that I don't understand being fucked up? Iggy, I had six—_six—_separate personalities crowded into my head, not counting the Alter. I went through that Cleaner and had my mind pulled in so many different directions by all my alters that I was put into a medically-induced coma for _eight weeks_ while Gunther-Hagen worked on the failsafe. _And then_, after he realized he'd taken all of my alters away, he isolated me from everyone and everything I'd ever known. I spent almost a year locked away in a cabin he visited once every two weeks."

Iggy winced. "I'm not trying to downplay what happened to you—"

"I'm not talking about comparing shitty pasts!" she snapped back. "I'm saying—dammit, _I'm _scared that you'll get tired of explaining shit to me all the time, or that you'll realize how serious of a condition D.I.D. is and decide I'm fucking crazy."

Ah, crap. Iggy sighed and opened his mouth to respond, but she wasn't done.

"And meanwhile, I look at you. After everything you've gone through, you still have it in you to be kind and sweet. You let every emotion play on your face, and you're not ashamed of it. You know how to deal with bullet wounds and stitch up serious injuries. You can fight for your life and actually stand a chance at winning. At the same time…" She trailed off as vulnerability ran underneath the anger and frustration. "At the same time, you like me, for some reason. I can't fight, not really. I was in the School for seventeen years. I'm closed off and prickly, I don't trust people, and I don't get a lot of references or inside jokes. I'm just…"

She didn't finish the sentence, but Iggy didn't really give her much of a chance to simmer. She thought a lot more of him than he could have imagined, and he abandoned the stovetop to move towards her instead. "Casey…none of that bothers me. None of that is a bad thing in the first place."

"Well—neither is whatever it is you're freaking out about," she grumbled back. "So…yeah. I'm scared you'll realize there are better fish in the sea than me too."

Iggy's chest warmed and he held out one hand. "Come here."

She sighed noisily, but then she moved close enough for his hand to brush against her arm. He followed the line of her arm up to her shoulder and neck until he cupped her cheek in one hand. "You're pretty much the best thing that's happened to me in…well, ever. Max and Fang just got me thinking about long-term and I freaked out that maybe you weren't thinking long-term for us."

"You're wrong," she said back.

"Well, there's a first for everything."

She elbowed him hard in the stomach.


	27. The Cat and the Canary (M) 3 of 5

**THE CAT AND THE CANARY, Part Three**

The whole cradle-robbing comment felt all too accurate sometimes. It wasn't like that at all—Casey was only four years his junior, and a completely legal age to boot, but occasionally his more dirty quips went straight over that bouncy black hair of hers and through the window to fall flat on the ground twelve feet below.

It wasn't like Casey was stupid or willfully naïve—just unexposed, he supposed. There was no such thing as television or the Internet inside the School, and being homeless didn't exactly lend itself to regular access to pop culture. Still, it put him in the awkward position of explaining some of his more raunchy comments, which never failed to make his face heat. Saying them was one thing—he liked to garner a reaction, which was generally why he teased the hell out of Max whenever she got particularly vocal with Fang behind closed doors. Explaining what his comments meant to Casey, though…

"Seriously, just tell me," Casey said, her feet still in his lap. He was trying so hard to avoid explaining his most recent off-the-wall comment, which included staring blankly straight ahead where he knew the television sat. She wiggled her foot in his hand, endlessly twitching them about, which was what had prompted his comment about using those feet for more entertaining purposes, rather than continuously kneading his thigh.

Iggy tried to still her foot with his hand. She'd painted her toenails a light shade of green, the pearlescent shine a pleasant finish to his color-sensitive fingertips. "It was a joke. A bad one. Forget it, I'm begging you."

"I'll just use the Internet. Urban Dictionary has been pretty helpful in decoding Iggy-ese," she grumbled, catching one of his fingers between dexterous toes. Iggy felt himself pale a little. The absolute last thing he wanted was for her to look up _footjobs_ on the Internet. It wasn't a fetish he actually _had_, but that wouldn't stop her from damn sure thinking it was after exploring a couple of explicit websites.

"It's—_ugh!_ Why are you making me explain! Just roll your eyes and pretend I'm the most obnoxious person ever."

"I don't have to pretend for that."

Iggy sucked on his teeth and pulled on one of her toes. Casey pulled them away from him and he heard her body shift, weight leaning forward as if to get off the couch. Probably to get a laptop, to search the Internet, to find out what the hell he'd meant and then smack him like he was some sort of _weirdo—_

He lunged and shoved his entire weight onto her legs, pinning her to the couch. "No. No Internet searching!"

Casey sighed, annoyed, and pinched the back of his neck with her nails. He squawked at the pinprick of pain but refused to move. "Iggy, you know I don't get half the things you all say. I _know_ it's something dirty."

"I should really stop."

"I'm not saying _stop_." She exhaled noisily, that adorably frustrated noise that often combined to make him feel bad for pushing her there as well as send a stupidly affectionate wave through his wings. "Just, you know, explain it. I feel so…dumb, sometimes."

He didn't need sight to know she was scowling, if the way she played nervously with the hair at the nape of his neck was any indication. Iggy sighed and relented, pushing off of her. He folded one of his long legs under him and decided to be a grump about it, because if she was going to freak out on him, he at least wanted to be in the right mood.

"Footjob. You know…like a handjob, but with feet." He ducked his head immediately, stupid, stupid humiliation splotching his cheeks. He waved his hands in some sort of gesture meant to wipe away assumptions. "Not that I _want_ that, I was just—uh…ya know, _joking_."

Casey was infuriatingly silent and he again wished he could at least sense emotions, since he couldn't read them off people's faces without touching them. He pulled at a hangnail around his thumb and tried not to start babbling like Nudge.

It didn't work. After another moment or two of silence, Iggy couldn't take it. "Please say something because the silence is freaking me out. Like really freaking me out and I would prefer that you don't leave me hanging here."

Casey's weight shifted, sliding further onto the couch, and he took that as a good sign. "Well, I just don't…" He heard the way her words came out around a scowl again. "What's a handjob?"

Oh, Jesus, of all the things he was afraid she was going to say or yell or maybe not yell and just storm off about, that wasn't one. "You're joking, right? Case, you lived in Vegas for a year. Scantily clad women galore. _What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas_, yeah?"

Annoyed Casey was back. "I tended to stick to the _museums_, Iggy. I'm not much of a nightlife kind of girl, if you haven't already figured that out."

Iggy stuffed his face in his hands and groaned. Maybe he should just let her peruse the Internet. She could Google to her heart's content and then he wouldn't have to suffer through explaining sexual codenames to his unwillingly ignorant girlfriend. God, plus he had Dufresne to worry about. He already had to be _very_ careful of what he said around the FBI agent, not only because he was Iggy's _boss_, but also because he would totally kick Iggy's ass if he even got a hint of the fact that there was a relationship going on between his daughter and a blind, avian mutant.

"That's it," Casey said, shoving off the couch. "I'm Googling it. I'm Googling it and you can't stop me."

He didn't try. With another mournful groan and one last sniff to the air because, _surely_, she'd refuse to let him near her for at least a week, he flopped with his face into the couch cushions.

* * *

Several hours later, his door cracked open. "It's me."

He knew. He'd heard her bedroom door open from the first floor and then her light tread as she rounded the banister of the front stairwell before setting foot to the steps. He'd moved out of the living room because he really, _really_ didn't want to be around to hear her gasp in surprise or whatever once she'd pulled open Google.

"Did you traumatize yourself?" he cracked, more comfortable making jokes than, you know, being an adult. He set aside the Braille cook book Fang had managed to find somewhere for his birthday and scratched at the back of his head.

Casey had a maddening habit of not responding to questions. She didn't do it on purpose. Sometimes she just mulled things over, but where Max and Fang and Nudge had learned, over the years, to give him an _um _or a grunt or something so that he wasn't left hanging, Casey was still relatively new on the whole blind thing.

He was about to open his mouth and remind her, _again_, that he needed some sort of verbal response when suddenly he was pushed roughly onto his back on his bed. His hands circled Casey's wrists on instinct and it was only luck that stopped him from gripping them tightly enough to bruise in preparation to twist her arm behind her back.

"I did a lot of research," she said, bracing her hands on his chest as she climbed onto the bed with him. She slung one of her legs over his body to settle on top of him and he swallowed hard as a blobby version of her flickered into his white-vision. The earlier talk of handjobs hadn't helped his imagination settle any, and the warmth of her body in combination with her easy dominance started doing bad things to him.

"When I looked up one thing," she continued, shaking the black blob of hair from her face, "there were always links for related words, and I went down the rabbit hole."

His tongue felt swollen in his mouth. He was sure his words would come out clumsy and inarticulate, so the most he felt comfortable managing was: "Yeah?"

"I'm familiar with baseball," she said, dancing her fingertips from his pectorals to his shirt collar. "But apparently there's more than one meaning for the bases."

Oh, _God_, his heart was beating so fast and he didn't know why. She wasn't even doing anything but talking and sitting mostly still but the subject of their conversation was making him itch like he was fifteen and constantly horny all over again. Granted, he was twenty-two now and horny all the time anyway, but it was never something he needed to worry about, since he could just hop in the air for a quick flight to chill out or spend some quality time alone.

That was not possible with her on top of him, and it would become very, very obvious in about a minute.

"First base is the kissing," she said, the fingers on one hand touching his mouth. He felt the tips of her nails against his bottom lip and his brain turned to static. For someone who was more inexperienced than the average eighteen-year-old girl, she sure did a lot of things right on accident.

"Handjobs, I learned, are third base," she said, not even a hint of embarrassment lingering on her tongue. He could see the creamy blob that was her face, but he was tempted to touch her cheeks to see if she really was as unaffected as her voice made it seem. His hands, however, had found their way from her wrists to her thighs on either side of him and he wasn't inclined to move them. She leaned closer. "Do you know what that means?"

He could barely fucking function, much less string together a sentence. He shook his head no.

"It means we're missing a base. I do know how baseball works, and you can't get from first to third without touching second." She sat back, her weight shifting to where she leaned over him back to center. "Tell me. What's second base?"

He had no idea if she was pulling his leg or not, because surely her curiosity would have won her over and she would have Googled that after learning what first and third were. His fingers crept from her thighs to her hips, fingering the edge of her shirt.

Casey caught his wrists, small fingers wrapping around him. "Say it."

She was toying with him. She was totally fucking with him, and he figured that was because she'd grown annoyed with having to eek out information from him after learning some new phrase or word. It probably didn't help that he totally did it on purpose all the time.

She let go of his hands and then he heard a rustle of clothing. His white-vision flickered, her extremely blurry visage moving too quickly for him to decipher her actions, but it didn't take a genius to figure out what clothing that she'd removed exactly and his throat ran dry. Before he could say or do a single thing, she grasped his hands and sat forward, pinning them on either side of his head. With so much of her in his line of vision, she eclipsed the whiteness of the ceiling and he saw nothing but black once again.

He practically whimpered, half because she was so goddamn _warm _and even though she was so much tinier than he was, her command over him was seriously turning him on. The other half of him had zeroed in on the flash of skin, the greenish blob that must have been her bra before vision was stolen from him.

"This isn't fair," he said, sounding for all the world hoarse. _Fuck_, if he could get her onto her back, his sheets were white, something he'd picked on purpose. She was all of a hundred pounds, nothing at all for him to flip over, but it was like she'd turned him into a limp noodle.

Her lips grazed his cheek. "What's second base, Iggy?"

"Topless," he breathed, trying to hunt after her neck with his mouth but she stayed just out of his reach and he groaned. "Casey, you're killing me."

"It's not just topless. Stop being vague and tell me what second base is," she said, squeezing his wrists. She pressed close, nearly-bare torso pushing against his still-clothed one. He curled his fingers into a fist. Fuck it.

"Second base is me getting my hands under that bra," he growled, twisting his hands under hers. He broke from her grasp and gripped her wrists instead, tilting his hips to the side to throw her off balance. She gasped but he wrestled her onto her back. "Second base is me all over your boobs, which, I'll admit, I've been dying to grope since practically the first week I met you."

With her back to his sheets, his blurry vision came back. She was still just a mess of muted color, but her hair was spread around his pillow like a black halo, that much he could see. A large expanse of creamy skin was on display and he immediately latched onto her collarbone, right next to the slash of green that was probably the strap of her bra. "That descriptive enough for you?"

She made a small, adorable noise that he wanted to reproduce immediately. "Better."

Iggy let go of one of her wrists to grip her slender waist in his hand. Her skin was almost unbearably soft, unmarred by Eraser claws. She hadn't lived life on the run in life-or-death fights, and she was so perfectly smooth. He was totally inexperienced in what to do or how to touch her, but his stupid horny brain was solely focused on just taking in _all_ of her. Her legs wound around his middle, free hand scratching through the hair at the back of his head and warmth pooled in every limb.

He pulled away long enough to twist out of his shirt and her hands went straight to his abdomen, one sliding up towards his sternum. He had absolutely no shame and to say he was in good shape would be an insult to his fight-hardened physique. He grinned down at her wolfishly. "Yeah, so I'm pretty ripped."

Casey burst into a peal of laughter and arched to meet his lips. He let his eyes fall shut, grazing his fingertips up the smooth line of her spine. God, she was so small under him and a protective surge ripped through him. Yeah, he wanted to do dirty, dirty things to her, but it was more than that. He wanted her to feel special, like there was no other girl on the planet, and he wanted her to know that he'd always be the one to make her feel that way.

Casey buried her fingers in the downy feathers at his shoulder blades around the same time that he finally got his lips onto the swell of one pert breast. She was still decently covered by the bra but a thrill shot down to his toes when his fingers settled at the clasp.

She got self-conscious. "I, uh…I don't have much."

He almost laughed, but he caught himself at the last second, figuring that would be a pretty shitty thing to do when she was already feeling a little insecure. "Why don't you let me decide that?" he said instead, knowing full-well he'd say she was perfect no matter what greeted him beneath that green bra.

Her breath was shaky against his lips in what he was sure was a combination of exhilaration and nerves. She nodded, propping an elbow under her.

He was good at locks and complicated latches, which made unclasping her bra relatively easy, not to mention the fact that he'd washed Nudge's bras on occasion back when they were all on the run. Once the clasp was open, he ran a flat palm up and back down the uninterrupted expanse of her spine. It was a little strange, for him, to touch someone's back and feel nothing there. He was so used to working around big, feathery wings.

Carefully, slowly, he slid the straps off her shoulders, following one of them with his mouth. Casey shivered under him and goosebumps rose under his fingers and lips to litter her skin. Iggy grinned, dropping her bra somewhere off to his left. Even against white, he couldn't see much of anything—he could tell where her waist tapered off against the sheets, but his ability wasn't good enough to see detail.

That didn't matter. He'd been using his other senses to see since he was young, and so he leaned down to kiss her mouth before letting his hand glide up her side. His thumb found the side of her breast first, silky and secret to his sensitive pad. She felt like fresh rose petals and if he wasn't hard before, he sure was now.

Casey gripped one of his biceps in her hand and kissed him back, but she was shy, nervous, and he traced his fingers along the underside of her breast. "You're beautiful, Casey."

She smiled against his mouth, relaxing under him. "Yeah?"

She really had no idea how infatuated he was with her. He was determined to show her and make that intoxicating voice pant out his name by any means necessary. He stopped bothering with small, subtle movements and finally cupped her in his palm.

She had just a little less than a handful, small but perky and so incredibly soft. Yeah, she didn't have an overflowing abundance of boob that spilled from his hands but, hell, it was more than he'd ever held in his life and he found he liked having just enough anyway.

Man, no _wonder_ people ranted and raved about boobs—they were _awesome_. Iggy couldn't help the probably completely boyish, dopey grin on his face as he buried his face in Casey's soft cleavage. The peaks of her dusky pink nipples were hard under his questing fingers and he traced around them with this thumbs. "Damn, Case. You're never wearing a shirt again."

She started with a laugh that caught in her throat and fell off into a shudder when his mouth dropped square onto one breast, tongue exploring just like his thumbs had done. "Oh, _shit_," she breathed, gripping his hair by the roots. Her legs cinched tighter around his middle and there was no way she could miss the friend standing at attention in his pants. She didn't say anything, but she arched once again, pushing herself harder against his mouth.

He was all over her like a piranha on a piece of meat, sucking, kissing, nipping at every inch of skin between her neck and her hips until he had her squirming and breathing heavily right in his ear. She groaned, the sound sinfully electric, before gripping his shoulders. She used her legs around him and all the strength in her slight frame to roll them into an upright position. Iggy didn't miss a beat, settling her into his lap before she attacked his mouth. He couldn't get enough of her and he fisted a hand in the black curls of her hair.

It didn't go further than that, despite his dick's incessant urging to keep going. It came around time for him to make dinner, and that was when they finally had to pull apart. He really didn't want to let go of her, but he could hear people moving around downstairs, pulling open the pantry and rustling around for pre-dinner snacks.

His lips felt bruised and swollen in the best way and he squeezed Casey's taut, bare waist. "Hate to break up our party," he said, surprised to find his voice scratchy and hoarse, "but someone is gonna come up here soon to get my ass to the kitchen."

"So what?" she exhaled, running her nails through his hair. His scalp prickled and a shiver shot down his spine. "You make dinner every night. What, they can't fend for themselves for once?"

Iggy snorted. "No. Believe me, you don't want Max touching anything with a heating element. The best they know how to do is cook things over a fire, which we don't want them resorting to in the middle of the fall in California with a drought going on."

Casey sighed and the fact that she sounded so disappointed made his ego fly through the ceiling.

"Besides," he said, sliding his hands up her thin, smooth back, "I like cooking. It's fun."

"More fun than what we're doing?"

She had him there. Iggy jostled her in his lap and leaned forward to plant his mouth on whatever part of her just happened to be there. He felt her collarbone under his lips and grinned when she hummed happily.

"How about I make it up to you after dinner?" he suggested. "I've got another slang word for ya."

"Am I going to have to look this one up too?" she asked, and he could hear the annoyance start to leak into her voice.

"Nah, I'll demonstrate this one," he promised, waggling his eyebrows at her. "It's called motorboating."

* * *

AN: I've never posted M-rated material that wasn't Fax, and so this was a bit new for me. Of course, it's barely M but Iggy has a much different voice than Max or Fang, so the experimenting was fun! Please don't forget to leave any thoughts :)


	28. The Cat and the Canary (T) 4 of 5

**THE CAT AND THE CANARY, Part Four**

He wasn't sure exactly sure what had woken him, but he'd turned over in bed, fishing for one of his earplugs in his sheets that had wiggled free of his ear, and that was when he heard it. Something small, a tiny noise, coming from somewhere in the house.

He listened closer, but there was nothing further. Something itched into his chest, not unlike the moment right before an Eraser attack back in the day, and he sat up in bed.

Something was wrong.

Iggy pushed back his blankets and groped to his left for his alarm clock. The soft electronic voice read the time for him, just past three in the morning. He listened to everything, tuning out his own heartbeat. The whirr of the air conditioning was the loudest thing, and he added it quickly to his heartbeat to hear past that, too.

Crickets. A plane somewhere miles above in the air. Something small, likely a squirrel, in the brush below his window scavenging for food. The slow breaths of his sleeping family.

No, the slow breaths of three people. A fourth was awake, with too-fast breaths.

His first thought was Max. Max had an extraordinary amount of nightmares, following everything with the School. It was a rare night that she didn't have a nightmare of some sort, and it was half the reason he had earplugs. Not to be an asshole, but because he couldn't do anything about it and he needed his sleep. Fang, he knew, handled her nightmares himself.

But the closer he listened, the more apparent it came that it wasn't Max. Three even patterns of breath whispered around him, from Nudge across from him and Max and Fang in their bedroom down the hall.

No, the too-fast breathing, the breathing that sounded of nightmares and terror…it was coming from below him.

Casey's room was right below his. Technically, it was the library, but Max had all of a dozen books, none of which she had ever read, and so the room had been emptied of unused furniture and filled instead with a bed and dresser and whatever else. Frankly, Iggy thought it was ridiculously small in there, and ever since Dylan's death and Nightshade's imprisonment, there was a free bedroom literally right next to his.

Apparently though, Casey preferred the small, dark room. He supposed it was that animal part of her, the same animal part in him that craved the skies for comfort. She'd made it her own, and he also wasn't entirely convinced that the empty bedroom wasn't somewhat cursed, given the fact that Nightshade had been in it for all of a couple of weeks before moving to a cell, and then Dylan had moved in only to die just a bit later. Fang was faring fine, and it had been his room first, but two bad experiences out of three wasn't a set of odds he wanted to gamble with when it came to Casey.

Iggy tipped out of bed and had his hand on the doorknob a moment later. He yanked open his bedroom door and padded out of his room. He made it down the front stairwell without hitting the creaky spot on the fifth step from the bottom and then paused outside her bedroom door.

Did he knock? Did he just go in? He didn't know what the protocol was here, what to do. She was his girlfriend, but only by a month, and they had a weird living situation. He had no idea what she'd do if he woke her up in the middle of a nightmare. Scream and wake the whole house? Freak out and dash out the window? Slap the shit out of him for barging into her room?

That desperate sound of terror spawned again, so quiet he barely heard it over his thoughts. He'd opened her door in the next moment, his mind on nothing but that horrible noise.

The problem with Casey's room was that she was continuously leaving shit all over the floor. Brushes, cups of cloudy water, tubes of paint, her clothing, pencils and pens and sketchpads—he knew her bed was a sidestep to his right and four steps forward from there, but what landmines existed between the door and her bedside were a wildcard.

He shut the door behind him. "Casey?"

There was no response from her, just that too-fast breathing, the sound of her body shifting in the sheets he pictured tangled around her legs. He called her name again, wincing and flicking his eyes to the ceiling. Too loud and he'd wake Fang, easily the lightest sleeper.

Still, no response. He slid his foot forward across the floor, his toes nudging aside something that rolled across the hardwood. He made his way to her bed in that way, definitely knocking aside something that sounded like a near-empty cup of clouded, paint-tinged water, before finally touching the edge of her mattress.

His hand found her foot first, long fingers wrapping around her soft ankle. "Case."

She wasn't trained like they were. They all shot up easily, ready to fight at a moment's notice, but Casey had never lived life fighting the School's monsters, and she'd never woken to an Eraser's boot on her neck or a Flyboy's clunky wings flapping twenty feet in the air above their clearing in the forest.

He squeezed her ankle and sat on the edge of the bed, then skimmed his fingers along the line of her body until he found her face with sensitive fingertips. "Casey," he tried again, and that time, she woke.

She inhaled quickly, those too-fast breaths speeding even further to a near-panicked pace. Her hand snapped to his, slapping it away from her face and she _hissed_, actually hissed at him, like a cat.

"Get away from me!" she growled, and he stuck his hands up as if in surrender as she skittered away and towards the headboard.

"It's just me," he said, and wondered how dark her room was, if she could see him or had just felt some strange hand on her and didn't know what was happening. Her erratic breathing was the only indication for him as to her emotions and each quick pull of oxygen from the air sounded horribly strained in way that made his chest hurt. "You were having a nightmare. Breathe, Casey, or you'll pass out."

"I'm fine," she snapped, accompanied by a rustling that he assumed was her shunting her blankets away. "Not the only one in this house that has them. I'm fine."

She didn't sound fine, but he didn't push it. Instead, he folded his hands back into his lap and sat quietly, just listening to her heart slam against the inside of her chest for a moment before she shoved out of her bed and absconded quickly into the bathroom next door. The soft whishing sound of water through pipes preceded the faucet sputtering to life.

He wondered for half a second whether or not to leave her be. Nightmares, until recently, when he'd helped with Max's, went untouched. They all had them. They were a lasting scar from the School, and though they all liked to play fine, the nightmares proved that they weren't one hundred percent. Being revealed as _not okay_, having that vulnerability exposed…

Iggy bit back a sigh and flopped onto his back on Casey's bed. It was okay. It was okay to be vulnerable like that. He'd had a bad reaction, he'd admit, to Max when she had confessed in the warehouse that night why exactly it was she was so afraid of her nightmares. It wasn't just because she feared Parker would run straight back to the School—it was because of the monster that lurked within Parker, and how very vulnerable she would be once again if Bane got a hold of her.

He'd been mad and horrible in the following days. Unfairly so. She was afraid to admit how bad the School had gotten for her, and then he'd gone and given her the cold shoulder.

Now he knew exactly how bad the Alter had been for her. He'd had first-hand experience, though for a significantly lesser time. He couldn't even complain, really, though it haunted him.

Iggy heard the water cut and then the door open once more before Casey's feet on the hardwood. She paused in the doorway. "You're still here."

"Last night," he started, staring at the ceiling. It was too dark for the white to come through, but he was seeing something else, anyway. The room with the Cleaner and it's white walls. The blurry _something_ that Max had later described for him, the metal spider on its back with a crown of horrible, scientific alteration. "I had a nightmare."

Casey was silent. She shuffled into the room and shut the door behind her before moving back towards the bed.

"I was fourteen again," he continued hoarsely. "I was flying with the rest of my family. Angel and Gaz too. But I couldn't feel the wind in my feathers. I couldn't feel the sun on my skin. And when Erasers came…I helped them take apart my family, piece by piece."

He shuddered, at least glad he hadn't felt the way their wings broke under his hands. He had still heard it though. That, and their screams, and their bodies hitting the ground.

"I had an Alter for all of, like, an hour," he said and scoffed. It was somewhat ridiculous that it had affected him so much, but it also wasn't. He relied so heavily on his four remaining senses, and all but his hearing had been taken from him. And then the _thoughts_ his Alter had—were those his thoughts? Was that anger his anger, buried somewhere deep down inside of him?

"So did I, really," Casey said quietly. She sank down next to him. "Gunther-Hagen put me under while he worked on the failsafe, so it was only that one time, but…"

It wasn't the only Alter she had. Just the only one that wasn't organic, from the dissociative identity disorder. "But you had others."

"Yeah," she answered. She shifted to lie next to him, her small body warm. "There's a lot of lost time when they took over. It wasn't like Gunther-Hagen's Alter, where you could still see and hear. I would just get too anxious or too scared and—" She snapped her fingers. "Then I'd come to somewhere else, sometimes hours later. One of my alters had taken over to deal with the problem."

Iggy didn't know if that was worse. At least with Gunther-Hagen's they knew what was happening. And yeah, they could duck away behind those walls that Max had used so often, but still. The choice was there.

Casey inhaled as if to talk again, but she hesitated. Iggy felt around on the bed until he found her wrist. He skimmed down until he found her fingers and then pulled her hand to his chest.

"It's okay, you know," he said, running his fingertips over her painted nails. They were a purple so dark they were nearly black. "To have nightmares." She grunted and shifted uncomfortably. "It doesn't make you weak."

"It means he still wins from his jail cell."

"No," he said, rolling onto his side. He looked down at where he thought her face was and squeezed her hand. "It means you're dealing with it. And you get to do it from the comfort of your own home, rather than a tiny jail cell. I'm sure Gunther-Hagen is having plenty of his own nightmares after that helicopter crash. Max and Fang were none too gentle with him."

Casey snorted humorlessly. "Max told me his cell is seven-by-seven. Smaller than her white room in the School. Smaller than mine at Hawk Lake. She sounded very happy. I still think it could be smaller."

Iggy grinned and shrugged. "Could be. Dog-crate sized, for example."

The lingering ghost of Casey's nightmare seemed to return. He felt her tense, and it told him just a hint of what her nightmare had been. "Right," she said, but it didn't sound convincing.

He pursed his lips and played with her fingers again. "You're free, Casey."

It took several too-long moments for her response. "It's hard to remember sometimes."

She'd been captive much longer than he had. Than any of them. She hadn't had a flock of her own, or anyone at all in her time at Hawk Lake. She had a family now, but it was still new, still something she probably thought could disappear at any moment only for a cage to return.

"Well, I'm not going anywhere in any case," he said, making himself comfortable in her bed. "And I mean that literally. Right now. I'm going back to sleep, and you aren't moving me."

To his surprise, she didn't fight him at all. He expected a pinch to his side, or maybe for her to shove him out of the bed, but she kept quiet for a good handful of seconds before lifting his arm and worming her way into his chest. A punch of affection socked him right in the gut and he held his breath while he waited for her to get comfortable. The side cut she'd had when they first met was growing out from that first shaved, short stage into almost downy-like soft curls and they tickled his nose as she settled.

"How do you shake them?" she whispered into his t-shirt. "The nightmares?"

He shut his sightless eyes and played with a long strand of her hair. "Before, I used to just take watch from whoever was up. Paying attention to my surroundings was enough to distract me. Now…sometimes I get up and I play Max's piano, or I go for a night flight. Sometimes I put on a podcast until I fall asleep again."

Casey breathed softly against his neck, her fingers fiddling with the material of his shirt. He was nearly back to sleep when she spoke up again. "Can you…"

He waited, but her fidgeting only got worse. "Can I what?"

"Nothing. Never mind."

"Casey."

She huffed, pressing her cold toes into his calf and curling up even further, like she was trying to make herself disappear. "I…I like when you touch my ears. It calms me down. I was wondering if you could…"

He hesitated for a moment. "To clarify," he said slowly, "we're talking about these ears, right?" He ran his fingers over the tip of one of the charcoal grey cat's ears at the top of her head.

It twitched back and forth and Casey grumbled under her breath. "No, the human ones, because that's not totally weird," she shot back. "_Yes,_ I mean those ones."

Iggy let out a dry chuckle. "Just checking," he said. They barely poked through her mass of curls, covered in short fur that reminded him of peach fuzz. They were thin, the cartilage delicate under the pads of his fingers. He knew they were functional, though unlike his wings, they hadn't been 'sized up' to compensate for the fact that she was five feet tall, and not the size of an actual tabby cat. Those sort of corrections came with later experimentations on feline crossbreeds, but for her, there was the unintended benefit of being able to hide them under a hat when she went out and about.

Still, they moved independently of each other and helped her hear as well as he could. He brushed his thumb over the apex of one ear, down to the root where it connected seamlessly into the top of her head. Casey breathed out nice and slow against his neck. Her fidgety toes flexed a few more times before finally falling still.

It didn't take him long to fall back to sleep with the warmth of her body tucked into his chest.

* * *

The light woke him. Contrary to popular belief, being blind didn't mean seeing nothing but black all the time. It was a whole lot of _nothing_, sure, but there were still variations in that nothingness, like a beam of sunlight on his face to brighten the nothing behind his eyes.

Iggy blinked, the blurry corners of the white ceiling shimmering before he groaned and moved to bury his face back in his pillow. Only, his pillow had a bunch of soft hair and a heartbeat and swatted at him when he dug his nose into it.

"Watchit," Casey grumbled, shoving at his shoulder to shift her body.

Iggy grinned. "You watchit," he shot back, looping his arm around her waist and scooting behind her.

"It's my bed."

Iggy just grunted back, skimming his hand around her hip. He let it slip under the hem of her shirt, idly tracing around her navel with his fingers.

Casey was all thorny exterior when threatened or stony silence outside of the comfort of the house, but he had the great pleasure of seeing the third side of her—the melty one that went all boneless when his sensitive fingertips glided along her ribcage. She was still too skinny, both from a life at the School and the year of homelessness on the streets of Vegas, but he still absorbed her like she was a friggin' gift from God. He felt the tiny, delightful shiver his touch elicited, heard the hitch in her breath, and the way her heart sped up in her chest.

"Sleep okay?" he asked her. "After I came in to save the day, of course?"

Casey pushed an elbow back into his ribs and didn't dignify him with a response. He didn't know what it was, maybe the grogginess, maybe the cozy, under-covers snuggling, but he found himself wanting to engulf her. He rucked the blankets up over their heads and dusted his lips over her neck.

"I slept great," he continued, running his hands all over her. She tipped onto her back and hooked a finger into the collar of his shirt. "You can take credit for that, if you want."

"For falling sleep in my bed?"

Iggy rolled on top of her, eliciting an _oof! _of breath when he dropped too much weight on her. "Sorry. No, for being a good cuddle-buddy. You didn't kick me once, or try to strangle me in your sleep."

Casey huffed a small, groggy laugh. "Has that happened before?"

"Many times." He inched her shirt up, tickling her ribs until she squirmed beneath him. "This is a better way to wake up. Much better."

She kicked off the blankets and he felt her breath against his lips. "I've, uh…I've never shared a bed with anyone, so I wouldn't know either way."

"I guess you'll just have to trust me then," he teased, ducking down to press his mouth to the flat of her abdomen.

He heard the steps outside her bedroom too late. The door swung open. "Hey, Casey, do you—whoa! Jeez, it's not safe anywhere, is it?"

Casey tensed incredibly, but Iggy just rolled his eyes. "Nudge, don't you know how to knock?"

"Well, I didn't expect you to be here and all entwined, sheesh!"

Casey poked him in the abdomen until he rolled off her. "Weren't you supposed to head over to Jackson's this morning? And not interrupting our morning alone time?"

"Jackson cancelled on me and I was going to see if Casey wanted to head out to do some shopping," Nudge said, sighing loudly. "I _really_ don't want to be a weird third wheel, so here's the deal. We all knew you two were going to get together, but the bet was when, so as long as we all agree that you two started up a month ago, then I will conveniently find somewhere else to be."

"We did get—_oof!"_ Iggy started to say, but Casey jabbed her elbow into his ribs.

"Deal," she said, her fingers smoothing over his side. "Congratulations, winner."

Nudge's laugh was distinctive, like a clear church bell pealing through a cloudless sky, and it sounded her retreating footsteps as she skittered back out of the room.

"But we did get together a month ago," Iggy muttered, finger-combing his hair out of its probably horrible cowlick.

"Yeah, but then there's nothing in it for her and we get a third wheel."

Iggy snickered as her fingers shoved under his t-shirt and trailed warmly up his abdomen. "Sneaky thing, you are."

"Well, I am seven percent feline," she shot back. "Sneaky is in my DNA."

He grinned and leaned forward, aiming to kiss her lips. He missed by a hair, hitting the corner of her mouth instead, but she moved to cover his gaps, snagging the back of his head and smacking a full, toe-curling kiss on him.

It took him a couple of seconds to remember that she'd spent the first half of her night in nightmare-city. "Really though," he said after she let him go. "Did you sleep alright?"

Casey draped herself over his chest, shoving her nose into his neck. "You didn't snore, so there's that."

"Casey," he said seriously, and just like the night before, she huffed before finally divulging.

"It took me a little bit to fall asleep but…yeah," she admitted, tapping her fingers idly against his sternum. "I usually just toss and turn in fitful bursts of sleep until the sun comes up."

A soft movement flickered under his chin, one of her feline ears twitching, and he brought his hand up to brush over it. She made a small noise of contentment. "I'm glad I could help."

"Who said you did anything?" she said, but it came out around a smile he could hear, and a moment later she'd slung her legs over him. Her blobby visage shimmered against the white ceiling, her hair a sleep-rumbled mess, and his heart swelled inside his chest.

"Hey, I said you could take the credit for _my_ good night's sleep!"

She laughed his favorite, husky laugh and then leaned down to kiss him.


	29. The Cat and the Canary (M) 5 of 5

**THE CAT AND THE CANARY, Part Five**

He stood in his boxers with a similarly dressed Casey pinned to his bedroom wall. Iggy didn't really recall _how_ they'd ended up that way, only that he didn't want to move anytime soon. Casey was a hell of a lot shorter than he was, so it was easier for both of them if she was hitched around his waist rather than on her own two feet—no awkward bending to reach mouths and necks and freaking fantastic tits.

His hands were busy gripping her under thighs to hold her up, but hers were everywhere. She raked her nails up his chest, walked her fingers across his shoulders, scratched at his scalp, all the while kissing him goddamn senseless.

Shit, he could touch her all day long. Iggy pulled her away from the wall and stumbled towards his bed, hoping to God he was right on target as he leaned forward to drop her onto it. He was a little left of the center, but it didn't matter. His hands roamed, cupping her breasts, feeling across her slender abdomen. He pressed flush against her, relieving some of the pressure in his groin.

"Take them off," she said, so breathy that he almost missed it.

"Take—what?" he responded dumbly, grasping at her tiny hips. She wiggled under him, moving one of his hands straight into the waistband of her underwear.

His heart shot up a million beats. Christ alive, was this really happening? She wanted him to get her naked and it only took him another second to nod maniacally. He was nervous as fuck but a bigger part of him just wanted to touch her so bad that it easily outweighed everything else.

Iggy sat back between her legs, hooking his long fingers into her underwear. He tried to be slow. Really, he did, but as soon as she lifted her hips to help him slide off the soft cotton, something primal just snapped inside of him and then her underwear was on his floor.

He could _smell_ her. The tangy, heady scent made him swallow hard in ridiculous anticipation. Casey curled a hand around the back of his neck and yanked his mouth back to hers. She wrapped her legs around his middle and canted her pelvis up against his. Iggy dug his fingers into her hips and ground down roughly against her.

"Shit, Casey, you're fucking—_ungh_." She rendered him speechless by biting into his bottom lip and rolling against him again. His hands snapped from her sides to her ass, something he'd pinched a few times through her jeans, but never had he actually gotten his hands on it bare like this. Casey made a sound that sounded like a mewl, digging her heels into his back right between his wings.

He was fucking rock solid in his boxers and all he could think about was rubbing against her and kissing the life out of her. She leaked satisfied little noises into his cheek, his ear, his hair when he dipped to get his mouth on her boobs again.

"Keep—_ah_. Keep—" she stuttered, throwing her head back.

Iggy paused, managing to get through his clouded, horny brain that he might be hurting her or dropping too much of his weight on her or something. She dug her fingernails into his arm.

"I didn't say _stop."_ She dropped one hand, weaseled it to the waistband of his boxers, and jerked him back down. "_God_."

Iggy grinned widely, hunted for her earlobe with his teeth, and gripped her tighter. "Like that, do you?"

"I don't—I've never…"

It took him a second or two to figure out what she was saying, but when he did, he looked down in her general direction. "You've never…what, you've never had the big one?"

There was a second of silence. "I don't know," she said, uncertain. Iggy raised an eyebrow. How could she not know? It…well, it was pretty obvious for him, at least. He knew women were a bit more _complicated_, but still. "Didn't really have the privacy to explore much, and all that…"

True. The School pretty much lent itself to learning how to deal with no privacy _ever_. He'd had precious years between ten and fourteen to figure out the whole masturbating thing.

Well, then maybe they could explore together. Iggy pulled back, ignoring the aching dick in his pants, and ran his hands over Casey's thighs. "Have you ever tried touching yourself?"

He could sense the change in her skin tone on his fingers, the red flush that crawled across her body. Her heart beat faster than it already was and the temperature of her body rose.

"A couple of times," she admitted finally, her voice small, like she was embarrassed. Against his white sheets, she was a naked, peachy-pink blob. Not a lot of detail passed his ability, but a small swatch of darkness between her thighs stood out where he wanted to explore her most. "I didn't…really know what to do."

"Neither did I, at first." Iggy slid his hands down, past her thighs and over her knees until he could wrap his fingers around her calves. "It took me a few tries to figure out what felt good," he continued, pushing up on her legs until she bent her knees. "Tell you what though, two heads are better than one. I'll bet we can make some real progress if we work together."

He was teasing her, but it felt better than being a complete sap about the whole thing. He also figured she wouldn't appreciate him coddling her or whatever. Her breath hitched, just a little bit. "Okay."

Iggy grinned and leaned forward, aiming to kiss her sternum. The incredible heat of the space between her legs beckoned against his abdomen and he let one hand settle high on her thigh, a thumb sweeping inward enough to brush against curling, wiry hair. He so badly just wanted to go for it, to slide his fingers along all her bits, but he also wasn't a complete jackass.

The scent of her got stronger and on his next pass with the pad of his thumb, he brushed something different, something a little wet and a darker blushing pink than the inside of her thigh.

He struggled to pull up what he could remember about women. Men had simple bait and tackle—tug and pull and you reached the end goal in time, but women had an entire ecosystem. He remembered Jeb describing the black-and-white diagram for him, even though he'd been an embarrassed preteen and pretty much didn't want to hear it.

Casey shuddered, in a good way he hoped, and brushed her fingers against his arm. He took it as a good sign and moved his fingers more to center to feel all of her in his palm.

_Fuck_, she was wet. It made his mouth dry up completely. She shifted her hips again and his finger slipped between wet folds and hot skin. Her hand wrapped around his wrist and she moved him a little further north where he felt a small nub of flesh. "Felt good there," she breathed.

Iggy passed his thumb over it, listening to the pattern of her breathing, feeling for the minute twitching in her thighs. He played with that little pearl and she turned to goo under him, her legs falling open further.

"Harder," she directed him, and he was grateful for it. He didn't know what the fuck to do really, or how hard was too hard, but he was very, very good at listening. Iggy did as he was told, pressing harder, countering against the little jerks of her hips. He surged up to kiss her again.

As his thumb kept up pace, he let his fingers wander down to explore her anatomy. He was trying to create a little map in his head the way he did with faces, and also to figure out where he was meant to go. Was it really that low or was he missing something—

He finally found it with his middle finger. He barely dipped into her, more of a slip than anything, but his stomach jumped around crazily. She was so _hot_ in there and he couldn't help but imagine how it would feel to be inside her. He kissed her again, rubbing his thumb into her faster as her hips seemed to try and pick up pace.

"Tell me what you want," he told her, so desperate to get her off. He wanted so badly to hear her gasp and moan, her small body writhing under him as she came…

"You," she said back. She pushed his hand away from her and then fought with the waistband of his boxers. He was too surprised to do much more than sit there dumbly while she wiggled her hands into his underwear.

"Me?" he said, then caught a strangled groan in his throat when she wrapped one hand around his dick. "_Jesus_, girl, a little warning?"

"I want you," she panted, using her feet to push his boxers down his thighs. "Home plate, Iggy."

He practically choked on his own spit, completely thrown by this turn of events. He wanted to—God, he wanted to—but he didn't know what to do, and he'd barely even explored _her_. "Casey, slow down."

"What, you don't want to?" she said, sounding incredulous. She squeezed her hand around him tighter and he couldn't keep his groan internal that time. It spilled against her skin and filled his room. _No one _had ever touched him there, not without clinical hands and latex gloves.

"Believe me," he huffed, clenching his fists in the sheets. "I want to."

"Then what's the problem?"

There wasn't one, was what his brain was saying. She wanted it, he wanted it, they were both consenting, responsible adults—

Responsible. Iggy rolled off the bed and yanked his boxers back up his thighs. "Iggy—"

"Stay there," he said, using his feet to feel around for his discarded jeans. "Don't you dare move."

He jumped into his jeans and was out the door before she could respond. All his blood was powering one head, and it wasn't the one on his shoulders, so when he turned towards Max and Fang's room, he didn't pause to think about whether or not one of them was in there.

And unfortunately, Fang was. He heard Fang's knee bang the underside of his desk in surprise when Iggy threw open the door. "Uh, hey Ig."

Iggy froze in the doorway. He didn't have a plan for this. He stuttered over his words. "H-hey. Fancy meeting you here."

"In my room?"

The pause was awkward and Iggy felt his ears redden. "Yeah, uh. Must have wandered into the wrong…room. Yeah."

Fang's silence was telling. Iggy shifted on his feet. He was two seconds from backing out when the feeling of the room changed from a general confused air to comprehension.

"Oh," Fang said, thankfully rather expressionless. "My bedside drawer."

Iggy cleared his throat. "Awkward," he muttered, shuffling forward towards the drawer he already knew contained a stash of condoms. "I didn't expect her to…"

"Believe me, I get it," Fang muttered, typing away at the laptop on the desk. He chuckled dryly at some private memory while Iggy dug into drawer and fished for one of the foil packets. As he skittered back towards the door, Fang stopped him. "Iggy?"

Really, he just wanted to get the fuck out of there, because _oh my God_, he was nursing a glaringly obvious half-chub right in front of his sort-of brother. He grunted, "Yeah?"

"Put a pillow under her hips."

Iggy just blinked and then nodded like he understood, but his brain was already back on the naked Casey waiting for him in his bed, so he raced out of the room and back down the hall.

Despite telling her not to, Casey had moved. Iggy kicked his door shut, squinting through his white-vision to 'see' that she was no longer on his bed. "Case?"

He heard the sound of the bathroom faucet shutting off. "I'm coming, I'm coming," she said, darting from the bathroom.

"Not yet, you're not," he couldn't help but say back as she collided with him, smelling like his mouthwash. Casey either ignored his innuendo or rolled her eyes—he couldn't tell—but then her soft, naked body was in his hands and he didn't care anymore.

It was like pressing PLAY on his phone to resume one of his podcasts or something. Casey jumped right back into his arms, practically attacking mouth. He was giddy with excitement and he kicked out of his jeans, pushing them down off his ass with one hand while holding her and trying not drop the condom at the same time. Casey relieved him of that last responsibility, snatching the packet from him and delving her tongue into his mouth.

He duck-walked to the bed, shaking his legs free from his jeans as he dropped them both back to the sheets. Casey clung to him tightly, arms and legs wrapped around him. He managed to tear free from her limbs long enough to weasel off his boxers.

It was honestly like he'd ascended into a slice of heaven when he settled back between her legs, skin-on-skin from chest to hip. Sighted people didn't understand how much touch did to reinforce details. He could feel more than just skin—there was the degree of heat rising off her flesh, the little individual hairs that stood on end, the goosebumps all over her, every quiver of her muscles—all of it gave him a glowing map of pinprick lights to each and every point of her body.

Suddenly, Casey pressed her hands against his cheeks, her fingers cupping behind his ears. She was breathing hard against his face, minty breath fanning against his mouth. "Iggy, I…" She trailed off and then made a movement like shaking her head. "Shit, this is bad timing. Never mind."

She tried to tug him back down and he nearly went right with it but the tiny tremor in her voice was more concerning. "No, hey," he said, squeezing her thigh. Fuck, as much as he wanted this, the last thing he wanted was for her to think it was too late to turn back. "If this…look, if this is this is too fast, we don't have to—"

Casey laughed and kissed him. "It's not. It's just stupid to say right now. Forget it."

"Well now I'm curious," he said, burying his nose in her shoulder. The smell of her skin—vanilla with mint—set his blood on fire. It didn't help that he was nestled dangerously close to freaking promised land. "Go on. Say it."

"Ig—"

He nibbled under her jaw, a ticklish spot of hers, and she squirmed. "Come on," he goaded her, loving when she arched her back to try and get away from his mouth. Her hips rolled against his in the process and fucking _hell_— "Tell me. And don't even think about lying. I can tell when you do." He kissed her pulse point next and it jumped wildly under his mouth.

"Not fair," she breathed. The noise she made wasn't exactly a whine, but it was damn close. He returned that rolling movement, sliding himself against her and she groaned. "Oh, goddammit, I love you, okay? At least…at least I think I do and I didn't want to say it like this and have you think I'm just saying it because of what we're about to do—"

Iggy barely heard past those three little words. Well, maybe not so little, judging by the way his entire body swelled with affection, but still. They went into one ear and stamped onto his brain like a tattoo. He smashed his lips to hers.

She loved him. She freaking loved him and holy shit he couldn't even describe how that felt. It was one thing to have someone like her that wanted to be with someone like him, but for that to be something _more_, something that actually meant something…

God, and he knew he'd been in love with her since before even their talk in the kitchen, and he thought for sure he'd end up saying it first in a fit of stupidity like he always ended up doing, but for her to say it first—

"Betcha I've been in love with you longer," he teased, because God forbid he take anything seriously. He felt Casey's lips curl up against his mouth and then heard the sound of crinkling foil as she ripped open the condom packet.

"Oh, shut up," she said. She pressed the condom into his hand and he fumbled with it for a moment before sitting back. Luck was on his side, thank God, and he managed to figure out which way the condom rolled without much trouble.

Casey didn't give him much time to focus on the weird sensation of a practical Ziploc bag sheathing his dick before she wrapped her hand around him. Again, it came as a surprise and he ran his fingers up her thighs. "You're going to kill me."

"Wouldn't be a bad way to go out."

He snorted and then flushed a little. He'd found where he was supposed to go earlier, but that was before he was naked and two seconds from actually doing it and he was afraid he'd prod around blindly. Her hand was already on him, so he leaned over her and kissed her temple. "Help me out?"

She nodded and wiggled under him, shifting her hips until he felt her line him up. Her free hand had a death grip on his bicep and he kissed her again, his own nerves bubbling around uncomfortably in his chest. He shoved it away and pushed forward, using her hand as a guide.

He didn't get very far. The heavenly feeling of sliding into something wet and hot cut short about an inch in when Casey pulled in a hiss through her teeth. Her fingernails dug into his arm and he froze as she tensed incredibly under him. "Shit, stop. Stop."

His eyebrows knit. "What's wrong?"

Casey breathed out shakily and he felt her trying to relax. "I knew it would hurt, I just…didn't expect it to feel like that."

Iggy pulled back, rubbing a thumb into her hip. "I don't want it to hurt. I don't want to hurt you at all."

She barked a humorless laugh. "Iggy, everyone knows that it's supposed to hurt the first time. Just…go slow. I can handle it."

Okay, he knew it _could_ hurt for a girl. He wasn't entirely ignorant, and he had heard some things in the halls of the schools he'd been to over the years, not to mention curious searching on the Internet. Still, his heart stuttered in his chest. "Case…"

"I'm fine," she said, this time through gritted teeth. "I want this. I want you. I'm not afraid of a little pain."

The concept of causing her pain so he could have pleasure was one of the least appealing things he could imagine. This had all started because he'd wanted to make her come, and now he sat facing the prospect of hearing her bite back sounds of pain instead.

She must have seen him starting to reconsider the whole thing because she renewed her grip on his arm. "Iggy, please."

It came out sounding breathy and needy and his brain filled with static again. She cupped his jaw and leaned up to kiss his cheek. Her hips lifted against his and he fell to the temptation right in front of him. He pushed forward again—until she tensed involuntarily once more and his stomach rolled. There was no way he'd be able to keep anything _up_ if she wasn't feeling anything near what he was.

Iggy dropped his forehead to her collarbones and breathed out. "Casey, I can't. Believe me, I want to, but I can't."

"Iggy—"

"_Physically,_ I can't," he said, sitting back and flicking sightless eyes down to his lap. "I don't want it to hurt for you, and it's killing the mood knowing that it will."

Casey sighed dramatically and let her arms fall to the bed with a flop. "Then I guess we're never having sex, because at some point it might hurt. We just have to get that part over with."

Iggy frowned and rubbed his palm against his forehead. She'd been so into it when it was just him rubbing against her, and she hadn't had an issue with it when his finger had slipped just inside her. He ran his fingers over her hips and tried to think. Maybe…maybe it was sort of like sparring. Tight, cold muscles made it hard to throw fluid punches, to move quickly. It made it hurt more when punches landed wrong, or when trying to twist out of the way if things weren't warmed up and stretched out.

She was tight (in more ways than one, he couldn't help but think) and maybe she needed to be warmed up a little more. There'd been a break between how wound up she'd gotten with him groping her all over the place and running to get the condom, and she'd had time to get self-conscious enough to use his mouthwash.

Iggy let his wandering fingers track down to her inner thighs. "This is what we're gonna do," he said, running his thumb over her, searching out that little bundle of nerves she'd directed him to earlier. She made an involuntary noise, _definitely _not one of pain this time. "We're going to start over. We're going to take our time. And I'm going to make sure it doesn't hurt you."

She practically whimpered, probably because he'd rubbed his thumb against her harder, and she really had no choice but to agree. He didn't waste a second, diving down to kiss the jutting bone of her hip as he met her tiny, jerky movements. Down this close with his face, he could pick out more with his nose. That heavy, heady scent that radiated from the very core of her had hints of her vanilla shampoo, a little bit of the smell of the latex condom, and something else, something that he could really only describe as the scent of Casey herself. He bit at her hip gently as if he could just take a bite out of her.

"Unh, _shit_," she panted, running one of her feet up the back of his calves. He felt up her side with his hand, the flushing pink of her skin flashing behind his closed eyes. She grabbed his hand and squeezed his fingers.

He wished like hell that he could see her writhe wantonly for him. He'd bet she was a fucking sight, a gorgeous, pale body open and twisting in his bed and _fuck_, he wanted to be inside her while she moved like that.

He started small. It didn't take more than a stroke or two for him to feel like his digit was slick enough to start slipping into her. Iggy knew his hands were nimble. He had long, thin fingers—pianist's hands, Max had said once, grumbling something about his reach—and while that sometimes had made him feel a little like he had stupid delicate hands and not manly, awesome hands, he was kind of grateful for it now.

Casey's breath hitched, but she didn't tense up, didn't stop him from pushing into her. The heat wrapping around his finger was astonishing, and he managed to seat the entire digit inside her. He hadn't been wrong before—she was tight just around one finger and he kissed the inside of her thigh. "How's that feel?"

"Good," she breathed. She curled her fingers behind his ear. "Really good. Iggy…"

She said his name like a prayer as he moved his finger inside of her. Her thighs closed around his head and he _devoured_ her, drawing gasps and groans and, after a minute or two, he slickened a second digit for her to take.

This one was met with some resistance, and that was when the gasps turned from pleasure to pain.

Before he could pull his hand away, she whipped hers down there and snatched his wrist. "Just wait," she said, holding him still. "Just…just let me adjust. Let me get used to it."

The good thing was that his fingers wouldn't soften like his dick would at the thought of causing her pain, so he just nodded and ran his lips over her hips. Her thighs were shaky and he ran his free hand over one, drawing goosebumps all over her.

"Come up here," she urged him, tugging at his hair. She kept her other hand wrapped around his wrist, refusing to let him slip from her, but he did slither up her body. She pushed them onto their sides, tossing one pale leg over his hip. "Try a little more."

He hunted for her lips first, missing on the first go and getting her nose instead but she turned her chin up and caught his mouth on the second pass. From up here, he was forced at a shallower angle, and his palm also cupped her where she seemed to be the most sensitive. He touched her face with exploring fingers, catching the pain and pleasure as it flickered back and forth.

Her hand clutched at his hip before wandering around to wrap around him again. "You help me, I'll help you?"

He chuckled into her cheek. "Just don't squeeze too hard."

The backs of their hands brushed as she started moving, stroking him slowly, and he breathed heavily against her temple. With her attention split, the focus on the pain seemed to fade and soon he had both fingers seated inside her. He curled them and she did exactly what he'd said not to do: squeeze too hard.

He hissed the same time that she gasped loudly. "Sorry, sorry," she said, releasing him immediately and kissing him sweetly. "Sorry, that was just—" He curled his fingers again, grinning, and sucked her bottom lip between his teeth when she vibrated with a loud, sinful groan.

"The house isn't empty, you know," he teased her as she picked back up with a stuttering, distracted stroke along his dick. She rolled against him, her breath heavy and hot along his neck.

"Don't care. Really don't care. They can leave if it bothers them," she said, pushing closer, cinching her leg around him and digging her heel into his ass. He laughed and pushed her back onto her back, bending to suck at her collarbones, her breasts. All around his massaging fingers, her body fluttered, clenching around him minutely. "I don't—I think I'm—ooh, God."

She came with a short cry, her back arching to push her chest into his. He actually froze, completely surprised and exhilarated at the same time. She unraveled right beneath him, shuddering and clutching at him and Christ it was better than he could have imagined. That voice, her skin against his, her body responding in one of the most intimate ways—

She melted back against the sheets and pushed his hand away. "Yeah. Yeah, that was a first."

He beamed like a stupid ray of sunshine. "Really?"

"Oh, yeah."

Iggy snickered. "I can feel my ego shooting through the roof."

"I can see it. Your head is getting bigger."

He couldn't be more pleased with himself, really. It was ridiculous how much he wanted to jump off the bed and dance around the room. He'd gotten her off. He'd done that, made her fall apart and lose herself for the first time _ever_ and man, that was going to stay with him for a while.

He nearly forgot that he had his own issue down below with all of the giddiness he was feeling. It didn't take him long to remember as Casey went after his mouth. Her hand was still wrapped around him and she stroked him again.

He was totally fine with chucking the condom and having her tug him off, but she wriggled under him and sighed almost dreamily. "Come on. Let's try again."

"Seriously?" he asked, incredulous. Wasn't she tired, or at the very least tuckered out down there? Was this the totally unfair, non-existent refractory period that women had? "Casey, we don't—"

She had him right there and he practically whimpered when she pressed her heels into his lower back and pulled him flush to her. "I'm okay," she promised. "Gonna be sore either way. Might as well try again, right?"

He had half a mind to tell her he'd be good if she put that mouth of hers to work and another half of his mind to just go right for it. He leaned his forehead against hers. "You've got an unfair amount of control over me."

She let out a breath of laughter through her nose and kissed him. She tilted her hips up, seeking him out, and that was when he remembered Fang's advice.

"Hold on," he said, almost laughing when she huffed in annoyance. He groped for a pillow and leaned back. "Lift your hips."

"Why?"

"Just trust me and lift your hips."

She did and he moved the pillow under her, pausing to pinch her ass. It earned him a flick to the sternum but then he crowded against her again, her hips tilted up for her this time, and he slid forward. She didn't flinch, didn't do anything more than run her fingers up his arms and down his chest.

The resistance came again, more of a tight drag than a complete blockade. He felt Casey holding her breath and he tapped her side. "Breathe."

She obeyed, letting go of a deep breath as he kept pushing slowly. It was fucking heaven, that tight grip, the hot insides of her hugging him close. His head felt like it was going to pop and he bit back a strangled groan. "Ho-oly shit."

Casey's fingernails were biting into his arms again and he compelled everything in his body to keep still while she adjusted around him. It was ridiculously difficult—literally nothing felt better, and it wasn't just the physical bits of it. He was with Casey, and she trusted him with this just as much as he trusted her. His head was hazy with feeling.

"Slow," she breathed against his cheek. She smoothed her fingers along his biceps where she'd bitten half-moons with her nails. Iggy nodded and tucked his hands under her shoulder blades. The undersides of her thighs rested on top of his, petal-soft skin flushed and yielding. He took a shaky breath in and moved, pulling away from her as much as his body protested leaving the warmth of hers.

Hilting himself again made a shiver run up his spine. Casey was shaking under him, but he felt in his bones that it wasn't because she was in pain. She was prickly and untrusting, and though she'd gotten comfortable with those in the house, and _very_ comfortable with him, this was a big step. She tried to keep people at arm's length, and this was literally the opposite.

He brushed his lips across her brow as he moved. "I'm so glad I met you," he whispered to her, pushing his fingertips into her back and willing her to relax. It worked, a little.

"The day you met me, I dashed out of a six story window rather than stick around."

Iggy snorted. "Time after that, you bled all over the floor and threw more curses at my face than I have fingers."

Casey shook again, but this time in laughter. She clutched him closer and shifted under him, returning a tiny movement. It was an awkward dance, the two of them trying to find the other's pace, but they blended after a few fumbles. Casey let out a breathy exhale and he felt her eyelids flutter shut with his cheek pressed against hers.

A great, visceral thing took a hold of him, a need to consume every inch of her, to _be_ consumed by her. He burrowed into her arms and legs, finding a beat that made his blood sing, his body thrum. He felt stretched taut like a bowstring, or like the arrow nocked for flight and he groaned against Casey's skin.

Her fingers got restless, traveling across the skin of his neck, his shoulders, down his back. His wings itched as she trailed over the ridge of them and he let them unfurl, holding them above them like a giant canopy.

She whimpered in response, arching beneath him and his hands snapped to her hips to smooth their movements. He pressed her down into his mattress and pulled up, blinking to try and focus the flickering white-vision against his sheets. He took in the black cloud of her hair spread on his pillow, her pale, peachy skin bare and flushed, the dark swatch of hair just above where he pressed into her—_fuck_ it wasn't much, but he had a wild imagination and he pieced together her mental map and the blurred splotches of color to see the whole picture.

She was tiny and open and _his_ and he bent his head to spatter kisses along the tops of her bouncing breasts. He couldn't get himself slow down and it didn't seem like she was much in the business of making him.

She twisted, crying out in the very same way as when he'd made her come with his fingers and he ached to feel her do the same around _him_ this time. He tried to coach himself—_don't come, don't come, think of something else, like…like baseball. _

Baseball just brought on the image of someone rounding the bases, which in turn reminded him of when Casey had come into his room to explore a different type of second base which _really_ didn't help—

He couldn't hold back any longer. He tensed, pleasure zipping through his body as he came inside her. "Shit," he groaned, freezing with his hips pressed flush against hers. "Shit, Casey—"

"Touch me," she gasped, wrapping her fingers around one of his wrists and tugging. She moved his hand down between them, to that sensitive spot just above where he'd buried himself. "Touch me, Iggy."

He did, rubbing his thumb against her, feeling her knees lock. He hadn't softened completely, not yet at least, but he'd definitely gone super-sensitive and felt the way she tightened around him. It only took another few seconds and then her body clamped down on him, a fluttering series of contractions that made his head turn to ash. She let out a tiny, bitten-back moan, cinching her legs around him as her orgasm rolled through her and Iggy grinned like a lunatic.

Her legs trembled as she released him and he smoothed his hands up her sides, giving her perfect little tits a quick squeeze before settling over her again. She welcomed him, wrapping her arms around his neck and breathing a contented sigh. He hadn't noticed the sheen of sweat that had built up between them until that moment and he inhaled her greedily. Sweaty Casey would never get old.

"I think," she said, still a little out of breath, "that went pretty well."

"Even though I hurt you and then came too early?"

Casey pinched the back of his neck and then dipped her hand underneath her. She canted her hips, rolling them both somewhat sideways, and then pushed the pillow out from underneath her hips. "The pillow actually helped. How'd you know to do that?"

"Fang suggested it."

"You _told_ him we were—"

"He guessed. Kinda hard not to when I went to find his stash of condoms. He was in his room when I barged in."

Casey huffed but relented. "Well, I'll assume he knows what he's talking about."

"Max seems pleased enough, judging by the sounds I hear coming from their room."

She snickered and then kissed him full on the lips. "Wanna continue this naked party in the shower?"

_Soapy _Casey…that would be new. It would mean no more Sweaty Casey, but hey. "Absolutely."

* * *

She stayed with him that night in his bed, even hours and hours later, after dinner and conversation and Fang tapping the back of his hand twice as he helped set the table, a silent _alright?_

Iggy just sent a beaming grin his way, which he figured answered the question well enough. _I could die this moment and be happy._

She was in small cotton shorts and a tank top when she wormed into bed next to him, smelling like mint toothpaste and his shampoo. "Good luck having a bed to yourself ever again."

"Somehow, I don't think I'll mind."

She hummed and curled into his side like the part-cat she was, one of her fuzzy ears tickling his chin. "It's a damn good thing I have amazing dexterity. I'm not as sore as I thought I'd be."

"Is that so?" Iggy couldn't help a combination of a giddy laugh and a worried one. "Are you okay? Really?"

"I'm joking, Iggy. I think I'll manage."

He wrapped an arm around her, letting the cool night and the easy wisps of her breath drift over his skin. His window was open and the slight breeze that came through the low valley to the east whistled through the screen keeping the bugs away.

"I should have said it right."

"Said what right?" she asked, rubbing her nose against the shoulder of his t-shirt.

"You said you loved me, and I joked back. I should have said it right."

Casey sighed and shifted to lie half on top of him, her hands folded under her chin. "It was you, through and through. I knew what you meant."

"Still," he said, lifting a hand. He touched the back of her head, let his fingers wander over one of those grey ears, soft as a rose petal, before tracing the back of his knuckle against her cheek. The pinprick map shimmered, the line of her cheekbone twinkling like stars in the night sky as he moved. "I love you."

He felt the smile as it tugged at her face, the stretch of grinning lips and dimpled cheeks.

* * *

AN: Iggy and Casey's 'origin' story, complete! Up next, a short, serious piece that never made it into _Catalyst_ proper.

Don't forget to leave your thoughts!


	30. Role Reversal (T)

AN: Around the time of Poland, while the Flock is still settling into their FBI jobs.

* * *

**ROLE REVERSAL**

**MAX**

"I hate to do ask this of you," Dufresne said, standing on the other side of my desk.

"Ask away," I said. "Not like I can say no. Immunity deal, and all."

I was kidding, but he didn't seem to be in the joking mood.

He rolled his ever-present pen between his fingers. "I need you to identify his body."

I knew who he was talking about immediately. Granted, there weren't a lot of bodies around to go about identifying, but still. There wasn't even a second of hesitation in my head. I'd been asked where Bane's body was buried, but since I'd very quickly disappeared right after killing him, I had no idea where it was.

I'd never asked.

But Hopkins and Goldberg had asked back before my deal was signed. I'd told them I had no idea, but that Dylan, Nightshade, or Fang would probably be able to tell them.

And apparently, they had.

"Why?" Fang asked from my right at his own desk. He had a thick file between his hands and looked for all the world casual as he leaned back in his plush office chair. The straight set of his shoulders was the tell that he was more tense than I was. "You have his picture on file."

Evidently, Fang knew who Dufresne was talking about, too.

"It's just procedure," Dufresne told him before turning back to me with a heavy sigh. "You and Nightshade were closest to him. Nightshade is upstate, so…"

It had been a while since his death, and he was not going to be a pretty sight, considering he'd been decomposing for weeks. I felt sick just thinking about seeing that, or even seeing him in general.

"Where is he?" I asked, and was glad my voice didn't sound as shaky as it felt.

"The morgue downstairs," Dufresne said. "He's been on ice for a couple of weeks, since all of you have been busy."

"You don't have to do this, Max," Fang said. He was always nudging me just a little harder when it came to the whole healing process, cracking me open little by little instead of letting me hide away. I couldn't tell if his sudden one-eighty was because this was Bane's actual body instead of the ghost of his torment, or if he just really didn't think this was smart for me.

I squared my shoulders. "It's alright. I'll do it."

Dufresne didn't second-guess me. He gestured towards the door and I stood, feeling Fang's eyes on the back of my skull. We were on our way to the elevators when I stopped short. "Look, elevators aren't my thing on a good day. What floor? I'll take the stairs and meet you there."

He eyed me, but I was locked up tight. "Basement, as cliché as that sounds."

I nodded and turned toward the stairs. As soon as the fire door closed behind me, I leaned hard on the handrail. What would it be like, seeing him again? He wouldn't look the same as the last time I'd seen him, that was for sure. The dulled blue eyes, the ash-covered, tanned skin, the dark hair…that would all be decaying away. Would he be all bug-covered? How much skin would still be on him?

The door opened behind me and I straightened quickly.

"Just me," Fang said before I could turn around. I slumped back against the railing. "Seriously, you don't have to do this."

"I'm okay," I said. I fiddled with the ring on my finger. "I just don't know what to expect, you know?"

Fang's hand smoothed down my back and he leaned next to me. "He's probably going to be a greyish color," he explained quietly. "He'll be pretty dehydrated, since all the liquid tends to seep out and dry up. He wasn't buried in anything but soil, so I wouldn't be surprised if parts of him are eaten away by maggots and other ground-dwelling scavengers."

I nodded mutely, trying to prepare myself. After a moment, I unstuck my tongue from the roof of my mouth. "Will you come with me?"

He kissed the side of my head. "Of course."

* * *

Dufresne held out a surgical mask when Fang and I finally made our way to the basement. "There's a dab of peppermint oil on the inside. Like I said, he's been on ice for a few weeks, but he still doesn't smell pleasant."

I took it just in case, but I didn't put it on, flashes of old School memories of Whitecoats looking down at me in similar masks flickering uncomfortably. Dufresne led us through two different doors—the first into the actual morgue, and then the second into cold storage. Only one slab was occupied. A body sat covered in a white sheet, and an M.E. stood waiting.

"Whenever you're ready," the woman said patiently, her hands clasped behind her. She was wearing a white lab coat, and that really didn't help. Gleaming metallic countertops and stored medical instruments along the walls made my skin crawl. The place smelled like chill and antiseptic, too-clean. Underneath it all was the scent of old cheese.

_Get it over with._

I'd been trying to conjure a mental image from Fang's information, but my imagination was far from accurate. There were no bugs. I don't know why I hadn't considered the fact that he'd been in here for weeks, or that the employees down here wouldn't have gotten rid of those.

His skin was shriveled and dried out. He looked brittle, like a single touch would crumble away what was left. The M.E. had pulled the sheet down his naked torso, and even through the slowed decomposition, I could still see all the wounds. There was the puncture between his ribs where my first knife had found home. The bullet hole from Spencer pierced through where his kidney would be, even though some of the skin there had rotted away.

And then finally, there was the hole in his chest. The killing blow.

The nausea that rolled through my stomach had nothing to do with the smell of death, but I pulled the surgical mask up to my face anyway. The peppermint oil helped keep the vomit at bay, but the thudding pain of a headache set in.

He didn't even look like himself. Well, _duh_, he didn't look like himself, but even in my head, it was as if I wasn't looking down at Bane. It was him alright, but the jump between seeing him dead by only seconds and seeing him dead after months felt surreal. Fang's fingers brushed my hip, warm against the chill of cold storage. I just nodded again at the M.E., and she covered Bane's corpse swiftly.

I shut my eyes, but all I saw behind them was the way Bane's bright blues had faded when I slid the knife into his heart.

I wished it had been less personal. If I could go back, I would have taken better aim with that first knife, maybe lined it up with his eye instead. That way the blade would have punched through his prefrontal cortex and ended it before we had the chance for one last intimate encounter. He'd held me in the palm of his hand for so long, and I'd gotten the chance to hold him there, too.

But it didn't feel like justice. It just felt wrong all over again.

Dufresne thanked me and led us back out.

"What's going to happen to him?" I asked.

"What our morgue usually does with unclaimed bodies is cremation," Dufresne told me, shutting the door to the morgue firmly. "He'll either be spread somewhere in the Pacific with a bunch of other unclaimed ashes, or he'll be put into a common grave."

I nodded numbly. I really didn't care where he ended up, as long as they didn't come to me to sign forms as if I was responsible for his body. I just wanted someone else to deal with my mess, for once.

Dufresne left us and Fang and I sat at the base of the stairs after he was gone. I leaned my head on my knees and Fang took to rubbing soothing circles into the back of my neck. I clutched at the surgical mask and tried not to rely on the peppermint while I sifted through thoughts of death and blood.

"You'd think I'd be better at dealing with this," I mumbled into my jeans. "How many people have we seen die now? How many dead Eraser bodies or Flyboys or whatever have we left behind?"

"We didn't stick around to see them look the way he did," Fang said. His fingers tugged at the elastic in my hair and it all tumbled free from the bun I'd stuck it in. My pounding head eased up a little as he worked gently at the back of my skull. "Do you want to go home?"

I shook my head. "No. I want to get back to work. I just need a minute."

"That's the last time you'll ever have to see him in the flesh," Fang assured me. "He's the FBI's problem now. Not yours."

I nodded and felt slight relief. It was dampened a little knowing that it was only physically that I'd never see him again. Bane would still linger in my mind for years to come. But Fang was right. It wasn't my problem anymore. Bane was someone else's inconvenience now, someone else's headache.

I inhaled and sat up, combing my hair out of my face. I leaned over and smacked a sticky kiss on Fang's cheek. "Thanks. That couldn't have been easy for you, either."

"Punching a corpse seemed unproductive."

I hummed and stood, taking his hand in mine. We started up the stairs and back to work.

* * *

Fang thrashed awake, breath fast, fists curled. I startled next to him, wide eyes darting around our darkened room. "Wha—"

A low sound suddenly cut off and it took me a second to realize that it had been Fang _growling, _like some kind of rabid animal. Without warning, his hands were clutching at me, crushing me to his sweating chest. "Fang—" His heart was thumping hard, and he was shaking. "Whoa, Fang…" I said again, in a whisper. "Hey, hey."

His fingers were practically bruising where they pressed into my back, but his fear and pain speared deeper, _harder, _like it was a physical thing that could actually take hold of me and suck me under, too. I wiggled closer and let him anchor himself to me. His breath was still harsh and fast in my ear and I held onto him. "It's okay, Fang. It's okay."

I had no idea what he'd been dreaming about, what had triggered this reaction, but I whispered to him that he was okay, that I was okay, that he was just having a nightmare. A few long minutes passed as he finally caught his breath and calmed enough to peel his fingers from me. He smoothed his hands over my back. "Sorry," he breathed, like I cared about minor, possible bruises.

"What was that about?" I asked, leaning back to look up into his eyes. They were closed, and he wouldn't open them. That told me just as much as what I'd see if they were open. "Talk to me."

"Just…just a nightmare. Nothing," he said hoarsely, threading his fingers into my hair. "It's nothing."

"That was not nothing," I argued softly. I was the one who had the partner-waking nightmares around here. Whatever nightmares Fang still had, I generally didn't even know about them, either because he didn't talk about them, or because they weren't enough to jar me awake.

Fang said nothing. He focused on a spot above my left eyebrow, rolling a strand of my hair around his finger.

Role reversal. That was what this was. He was as closed off as I was when a nightmare I didn't want to talk about cropped up. Sometimes, when I felt I couldn't talk about it, he played what he called the elimination game. Parker or me? If it was me, he knew it was the white room and torture. If it was Parker, then it was either torturing or the imprint. He could narrow things down from there.

But I really didn't have a basis to go off on here. His nightmares could be from when we were kids, to Angel and Gazzy, to the most recent excursion at the School.

I tapped his sides. "This from something recent, or something old?"

He pursed his lips instead of sighing inaudibly, and I nodded. Something to do with our recent School stay, then. It wasn't hard to find the trigger there, either. It had only been a few days since the trip to the morgue. I'd been lucky enough not to have any horrible fallout from it. Not Fang, apparently, who still occasionally felt that lingering guilt that he was responsible for my imprisonment.

It didn't help that he had detailed descriptions of what had happened to me, now that I was talking about it, or that Parker had tried getting under his skin to put that guilt there in the first place.

"Bane or Parker?" I asked quietly.

It took him several long moments to answer me. I let him take his time, pick his words, calm himself with that strand of my hair.

"Both," he said eventually. "And you."

I kept my mouth shut. Silence sometimes got more out of someone than a thousand questions.

And it worked on him. His fist curled in the loose material of my shirt at my back. "My mind keeps…fucking up the white room. When you tried to spring us. I see you in my arms, my hands over your ears—and then you're Parker and punching me to the ground."

"That…sounds like what happened, Fang." I reached behind me and worked his hand free from my shirt.

"Not what happens after."

I waited for him to continue, but he didn't. I trailed my fingers from his palm to his inner elbow. "What happens after?"

Fang shook his head, like trying to dispel the images. "Nothing. I shouldn't have said anything," he said immediately and tried to pull away.

"It's okay," I said, gripping his arm and holding him tight. "Fang, just talk to me."

He breathed out heavily, working his jaw back and forth. "You pushed back, he pinned you and changed you, Parker came back…and then he kissed her. Right there. Then it…goes wrong."

We'd never talked about that moment. I felt my face go bright red, both anger and embarrassment bubbling into a sickly froth.

I got defensive. "Fang, I couldn't—"

"It's not that. What the fuck is wrong with me?" he muttered under his breath.

Not knowing what he'd seen was making me itch. "What—?"

"No," he said, clearing his throat. "It doesn't matter. Forget it."

This was something that was recurring, something that wouldn't just go away. "I say the same thing whenever I don't want to talk about my nightmares. About _them_."

He rolled onto his back and stared hard at the ceiling. "This is different. Your nightmares happened. They're real. This isn't."

"But it feels real, doesn't it?" I said, because no one woke from nightmares unless they felt immersed enough. I turned on the lamp at our bedside table. Fang was trying to burn a hole through the ceiling. "Fang."

"It wasn't real," he whispered. "Go back to sleep, Max."

"You really think that's gonna work?" I asked. His eyes flicked to me. "How many times have you had this nightmare?"

He looked away. "A few times."

I sighed and laid half on top of him, setting my chin on his chest. "You're always telling me to talk it out, Fang. Just tell me."

He brushed my hair behind my ear, fingers lingering at the soft skin of my hairline. There was hesitation on his face, and he looked at me for a long moment before giving in. "When you pushed back through from Parker, you were in pain. Bane…took advantage of it. He pushed the hem of your dress up, and for a second—"

I remembered the moment clearly. And also, for a second, I'd felt the same thing he was bringing up now. That Bane was going to actually demonstrate just how much power he had over me. That he was going to force himself on me, right in front of Fang and Iggy.

He'd only been moving the dress out of the way to get to Parker's knives strapped to my leg, but Fang had just found out about the imprint. There was no way for either of us to know at the time that Bane was only going for the knives.

"And that's where your nightmares go?" I asked, and Fang's jaw clenched. I took that as confirmation. "

That low growl came again from deep in his throat. "I'm stuck to a fucking chain. He reminds you that he knows how to make you scream—and then he _does_ and I can't—" Fang choked on his words. "I can't do anything but watch. I'm useless, and he just _hurts_ you."

My heart ached. "It didn't happen that way, Fang. You know it didn't."

"Doesn't make it go away," he spat, anger and frustration clear in his voice. "Doesn't make it stop happening _every time_."

I scrambled for something to say, something to help. I thought back to everything he or Spencer had ever tried to do with me for my nightmares. Fang had me talk things out, Spencer had me breathe, calm down. He'd tell me to try and change whatever it was I saw, to try and lucid dream so that I could control the environment.

I mixed those two together. Fang was seeing something that _didn't_ happen, and that he felt he couldn't stop. He was seeing the worst possible outcome of that situation, even if it was false.

"Walk me through what really happened," I said.

"You know what really happened," he muttered.

"I do." I tapped his sternum with my fingertips. "But your subconscious is getting confused. Humor me. Walk me through it."

Fang laid under me and breathed. His eyes lingered on the ceiling, on nothing in particular, on the past.

"He pushed the hem of the dress up," I prompted patiently. "Then what?"

I could tell he was seeing his nightmare, and not the real thing. He was clenching and unclenching a fist by his side. "He put his hands on your thighs."

"…to take the knives away," I continued when he paused. "He undid the straps to the holster and took them away."

"He told you that a little time in the white room would remind you of what he did to you," he said, forcing a short breath through his nose. He shut his eyes. "And then…"

I didn't prompt him this time. I waited for him to force the real scene into his head, instead of the one he saw in his nightmares. His hand touched my hip. "He left."

"That's right." I nodded. "He left. He left me with you and Iggy."

He swallowed and breathed a little easier. "I just wanted to hold you. I wanted to take you away from there, away from him, where he couldn't hurt you anymore."

"I know," I said, remembering how soft he'd been. How desperate he was to root himself to something comforting, something real. _Me_.

How desperate I was, too.

I made him walk me through the next five minutes in that room, all the way up until his brilliant idea to use the underwire in my bra. I stopped him before we could get to the squeak of the trolley wheels in hall that would bring the crate, Bane, and a Taser shoved into my side.

"You weren't useless, Fang," I told him, skimming my nails over his abdomen. "You saved the whole thing. If you hadn't thought of that..."

"I would have had to kill you," he whispered.

I folded my hands under my chin on his chest. "But you didn't."

"He still hurt you," he said, looking down his nose at me. "He still took you away and—"

"—he could have taken any of us," I said, shaking my head. "He could have taken you, or Iggy, and used you as bait just the same. He just knew what buttons to press on me to make it look bad."

Fang gave me a look like he didn't believe that, and I shrugged.

"Okay, and because of Parker," I acquiesced. "Still. I handled it fine. I bought you the time you guys needed to kill Parker and make a plan to get out. And here we are. Alive. In bed, together. We survived, Fang. Bane didn't."

He ran his calloused fingertips over my forehead, then down my cheek. He closed his eyes again and exhaled heavily. "We survived."

* * *

AN: Up next, a fluffy piece in which Max attempts to cook dinner in order to give Fang some exciting news...


	31. Dinner Plans (T)

AN: This has no set time. Could be just after the end of Catalyst's epilogue, or it could be a couple of years later. Take your pick.

* * *

**DINNER PLANS**

I was feeling adventurous. That was generally not a bad thing, except when it made me want to attempt cooking.

I swore under my breath and shook out my now-burnt thumb. YouTube step-by-step cooking guides were insanely helpful, but my brain had a hard time cooking two things at once. I was pretty sure the little cake things were much more over-done than they should be, if the dark brown edges were any indication.

"Probably left 'em in too long," I muttered with an annoyed sigh. God, I should have just gotten Iggy to help.

Why was I cooking? Well, because I had news to share. News I wasn't exactly one hundred percent clear on myself, but news all the same.

I'd had taken the last half of the day off from work for an ultrasound—my weekly check-up. Fang hadn't come with me for this one, since he was actually in Washington on some FBI business. He wasn't all that happy about that, because he wanted anything and everything having to do with this pregnancy. Because it was so sensitive—who knew what kind of obstacles we'd come across, even if we had determined that I could carry the kid—I had check-ups often. Fang couldn't be there for every single one.

I heard his keys in the door. Dinner was so not ready. His deep groan came from the front foyer. "I hate planes."

I grinned despite myself and dumped the salad bowl on the table. "You're not alone there. Get your butt in here and enjoy dinner!"

There was silence from the hall for several seconds. Then: "Are you trying to poison me?"

I took offense to that. "Hey! I tried very hard!"

Fang appeared in the kitchen doorway, all six and a half feet of him dressed in a casual button down and a dark pair of jeans. "It smells burnt."

I scowled, even though that was very difficult with how _good_ he looked, standing casually there with his rumpled hair and lopsided smile. "That's the little cake things. Those are probably a lost cause."

Fang dropped his overnight bag next to the doorway and popped open the top button of his shirt. "Why'd you make dinner? You never make dinner. You never even touch the stove."

"I was feeling adventurous," I said with a shrug, then handed him the margarita I'd mixed. That was the only part of dinner I hadn't struggled with. Working in a bar with Spencer years ago had paid off.

Fang eyed the other margarita in my hand, and I rolled my eyes. "Mine is virgin, of course. I'm not that dumb."

He took his chilled glass from my hand and bent to kiss me. "How was your appointment?"

"Alright. Everything's good, of course. Fast growing little thing, but healthy because _someone_ won't let me have just one cup of coffee."

Fang sighed and leaned against our kitchen table with his margarita in hand. "Every single website—"

I flapped a hand. "Yeah, yeah, yeah." I placed my own glass on the counter and went to check on the sloppy Joes. Some of the meat was still pink and I grumbled under my breath.

Fang sidled up behind me. "You have to keep mixing it around. Otherwise the pink parts won't cook."

"I knew that," I mumbled, snagging my spatula and mixing the meat around. His fingers slid around the waistband of my jeans, and his lips grazed the shell of my ear. "Cooking is hard enough when I'm fully concentrating. You're not helping."

His chuckle was deep and warm, like hot chocolate in front of the fireplace. "I missed you. And I'm sorry I missed your appointment."

His hand moved to my stomach, gentle fingers brushing over the miniscule bump forming. I touched his hand and grinned despite my failures in the kitchen so far. "It's okay. You had that debrief. Besides, you didn't miss anything important."

That was a lie, but I was just as ill-informed as he was at the moment about the results of my appointment today. That's what all the cooking was for.

I decided to give him a hint. "Notice anything about the food we're having?"

"That I'll probably regret tasting it?" he said. I threw my elbow backwards into his stomach. He wheezed and laughed. "Okay, okay. Salad, alcohol, meat…and tiny cakes, apparently."

I pursed my lips and kept messing with the meat in the pan. "Caesar salad, margaritas, sloppy Joes, and those cakes are called madeleine cakes."

He spotted my laptop on the counter next to the stove, the YouTube video frozen on a picture of golden brown madeleine cakes. They looked much better than mine. "The pressure is on. Your really thought about this, didn't you?"

"Kinda, yeah," I said. I set my spatula down and turned in his arms. "It might have to do with current events."

He took a closer look around the kitchen. "Caesar salad. Margaritas. Sloppy Joes. Madeleine cakes." I bobbed my head. Fang sniffed at his margarita glass like he thought the answers were in the alcohol. "We're going to have sloppy sex involving togas and finger food."

"Oh, my God." I rolled my eyes and turned back to the stove. The meat was finally finished and I moved it off the heat before snagging the barbecue sauce. "_No_. Though I am liable to stab you in the back at this point."

"Sure you are, Brutus." He laughed and took a sip from his margarita. I worked on putting together misshapen sandwiches out of the sloppy Joe meat with a fork and handed him a plate.

"Guess again," I said while we moved to the table.

Fang thought while he looked at his sloppy Joe. I leveled a look at him and he braved my cooking enough to take a bite. He looked surprised. "Well, it's cooked."

I grinned sunnily, then frowned again. "My poor little cakes are a bit _over_cooked."

We looked over at the baking tray on the counter. My poor cakes still filled the kitchen with the scent of burnt shoes.

"Win some, lose some." He busied himself with forking some salad onto his plate. "Can't lose with salad. Automatic point there."

"Uh, well—" I winced and Fang paused as a huge glop of dressing slid from some leafy greens on his fork to plop onto the table. "I might have put the dressing on, forgot that I did that, and then added more. It's probably just mostly dressing, at this point."

He stared at me. "It's salad."

I scrunched my nose. "I know."

"You messed up _salad_."

"I know!" I groaned and pushed the whole salad bowl aside. "I really should have just gotten Iggy to do this. But I wanted to keep it between us for right now, and he'd ask questions, so—"

"Keep _what_ between us?" His black brows dipped. "Did something happen at the appointment? I thought you said everything was fine."

"Everything _is_ fine," I assured him. "But, you know…me and my bright ideas."

He shifted uneasily. "Max—"

"I swear, Fang, it isn't bad. It's nothing like that," I said. Fang was protective to the point of annoyance sometimes, and when it came to my health and the health of his kid inside me, he didn't like to mess around. "Just…play along. Guess again."

He watched me for a second longer, then sat back and surveyed the table again. "Salad. Drinks. Meat. Cake. Except…" He chewed on that for a moment and took another sip of his margarita. "Caesar. Margarita. Joe. Madeleine. They're all names."

I raised my eyebrows and nodded slowly. He was catching on.

His face took on the comical combination of dread and shock, over-exaggerated as he'd never pull a face like that for real. "Four names. Please don't tell me we're having quadruplets."

I couldn't help it. I burst out laughing. I laughed so hard that I had to scoot back my chair just so I could double over and laugh some more. Fang didn't find that amusing at all. He huffed and dug into his sloppy Joe while I practically rolled around crying on the floor.

Eventually, I got a hold of myself and I wiped the tears of laughter from my eyes. "No. No, _thank God_, we're not having quadruplets." He gave me the stink eye and picked up his second sloppy Joe. "But you were getting somewhere. The names are important."

"I thought we weren't looking at names until we knew if we were having a boy or a girl," he grumbled around his food.

For someone who was unfairly good at many things, he was proving awful at picking up what I was laying down. Or maybe it was my bad cooking and his long flight combined with the fact that I hadn't checked with someone else to make sure my little plan made sense.

I just hummed. "Exactly."

He stared at me for a minute and then it seemed to click. His sloppy Joe slid from his fingers. "No."

"Yep."

"I thought they wouldn't be able to tell the sex for another couple of weeks," he said.

"Generally, yeah. But, you know, bird genes. Baby's growing faster than normal. We already knew that would happen because of the Phoenix facility's files."

"I missed that?" He peered around at the food, as if trying to find more hints, but I'd purposefully picked two boy names and two girl names. "Max…fuck."

He looked genuinely upset in a way only Fang could, and I couldn't tease him anymore. "If it makes you feel better, I don't know, either."

He glanced back up at me. "You said you didn't want to know?"

"Oh, hell no. I definitely said I did. But I told them I didn't want to know right then and there. Dr. Sheila put the sonograms and a little sticky note inside an envelope for me so we could open it up and find out together."

His slow grin was totally worth my burnt thumb and the wreck of a dinner I'd thrown together. "Really?"

I got up from my chair and snagged the envelope off the kitchen counter, where it had been taunting me. I waved it at him and he scrambled out of his chair like a kid rushing down the stairs on Christmas morning.

I slid into one of the barstools and stuck my finger under the edge of the sealed envelope. I'd specifically asked my doctor to seal it, because otherwise I probably would have taken a look long before Fang got home. It had been killing me all day, having the answer _right there_.

Fang stepped between my knees and ran his fingers over my thighs. "I can't believe we're really finding out."

"I know," I said, feeling around inside the envelope without looking. I peeled the sticky note off and stuffed it under my thigh. "Come on, let's see if we can figure it out."

Because my pregnancy was oh-so-special, my ultrasounds were more frequent just to make sure everything was okay. Every time we'd gone in for an appointment, neither of us could make heads or tails of the weird images and moving bits on the high-tech machines.

Until recently. In the last visit, the baby had started looking less like a weird alien fruit and more like…well, a more humanoid alien. With a huge head and legs curled up tight and tiny little wings pressed into the back.

It was simultaneously cool and freaky as hell.

There were two sonograms inside the envelope. One was taken from the side, with the baby's whole profile in view. Unlike the last photo, this time, the baby's head was less odd-shaped. It was more round and perfect, and Fang's fingers tightened on me just a little bit.

"I feel like I should be gaining more weight," I muttered, tapping my stomach idly. "I know most people would probably say I'm lucky, but still."

"As long as everything is healthy," Fang said, squinting at the sonogram. He pulled the second one, and this time it was much more difficult to figure out what the hell we were looking at.

"I think that one's the photo of the bits." I snorted as Fang turned the photo this way and that, trying to orient things the right way around. After a moment, he sighed.

"I have no idea what I'm looking at. The example pictures online pointed out the differences, but this all just looks like a mess of black and white…shapes."

I just shrugged. "Well, that's why we have doctors to tell us this stuff." I reached under my thigh to nab the sticky note. "God, I'm actually nervous."

"Afraid it'll say 'girl' and you'll have to buy something pink?" Fang teased, and I gave him a dirty look.

"First of all, colors assigned to genders are completely arbitrary. Second of all, I'm not _afraid_ of pink. I think _you're _afraid of having a girl, because you don't want to have to deal with two of me."

Fang grinned and tapped my nose with the sonogram in his hand. "Or, she could be like me and perfect."

"What about when she brings home her first boyfriend?" I retorted, and Fang grimaced.

"Let's just hope our kid cooks better than you," Fang said. I reached over to grab one of my burnt madeleine cakes.

"Next jab about my cooking, and I will shove this cake in your smart mouth. Got it?"

Fang's eyes were bright with mirth, but he relented. "Okay, okay. Come on. What's the sticky say?"

I set down the little cake and brushed the burned crumbs from fingers. I paused with the sticky note facedown in my hand. Fang reached out and turned it over.

_Congratulations! _Dr. Sheila had written in her loopy doctor's script. _It's a boy!_

"Oh, thank God," Fang breathed. He let out a short laugh and scooped me straight into his arms. "We're having a boy. We're having a _son_."

My heart filled and felt near to bursting. I hadn't angled for either a boy or a girl, but I knew Fang was betting on a boy. I laughed along with him and let him spin me around the kitchen.

He set me back down in my barstool and cupped my face in his hands. He leaned down and kissed me hard, his lips curled up into a smile. "I keep thinking I can't get any happier," he said once he pulled away. "And then something comes along to prove me wrong."

I couldn't help my thousand-watt smile. "Nudge won't be happy. She was hoping for a girl."

Fang shook his head, then moved his fingers towards my bump. His large hands held me and our baby close. "Aunt Nudge will have to deal with it. Right, little man?"

I laid my hands over his and felt myself melt like I did every time he talked to the baby. To our _son_.

Fang kissed my forehead. "You want to get back to our dinner?"

"Nah," I said, tugging him back between my knees. "I have something else in mind."

"Oh, good," he muttered, sweeping my hair away from my neck so he could devour the skin there with his lips. "I wasn't really looking forward to getting back to it anyway."

I sighed and reached to my right. "Hey." Fang pulled back—and I shoved my burnt little cake right into his mouth.

He blinked in surprise, then frowned at me.

I was unsympathetic. "I did warn you. And yet you did it anyway. You insulted my cooking again."

He sighed around the cake and then reached up to take it out of his mouth. "Okay, I deserved that."

"Yes, you did. The mother of your child makes you a nice, home-cooked meal to welcome you home, and you make fun of it? That's just rude." I was laying it on thick, since we both totally knew dinner was a bust, but Fang was a good sport.

"Very rude," he assented, tossing the cake over my shoulder and into the sink. "And after she delivered me such good news, too."

I ran my hands up his chest, then started popping the buttons on his shirt on the way back down. "Maybe you should find a way to make it up to me."

"I can definitely do that," he said with a wicked grin. He swept me off the chair and up the stairs.

* * *

AN: Up next, how to ask your best friend to be your child's godfather when his definition of godfather is a lot more dangerous than yours.


End file.
